


Fire and Ice: A Story of Starks

by Lon_Wolfgood



Series: The Longer Random Tales of A Song of Ice and Fire [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, R Plus L Equals J, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-07-27 10:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16217558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lon_Wolfgood/pseuds/Lon_Wolfgood
Summary: Jon Snow was never allowed into Winterfell. Instead, he grew up in different places around the North. He is known as Lord Stark's bastard, but he does not know who his mother was. One day, Lord Eddard Stark summons him to Winterfell to retrieve his youngest half-sister, Arya. And quite suddenly, he finds himself in the midst of an internal conflict within House Stark.Meanwhile, Arya Stark is an unrefined young woman who prefers the company of other women. She will never have a chance in this world of men, unless she forges a path for herself.NOTE: Not abandoned, temporary hiatus until the end of season 8. Thanks for understanding and sorry for the long wait.





	1. JON I

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write an Arya/Dany story where Arya is not a lady, or does anything ladylike. I've seen some stories that kinda go this way, then suddenly Arya does something opposite of that. It just seems jarring.
> 
> This does not follow canon. Some characters will be harsher, but I don't like the thought of that to be construed as "character bashing". I think every character has their own reasons to act the way they do, and they will be understood (in part, at least) as the story continues.
> 
> As with my other stories, I have no schedules. I apologize in advance if it takes some time to get the next chapter done within the next month.
> 
> I might add more pairings and characters as time goes on. I have no defined plans beyond wanting to write Jon & Arya and Arya/Dany. I do plan on adding major plots: Others and Iron Throne, but I cannot promise things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **UPDATED March 13, 2019:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So, a little backstory: when I first wrote this chapter I did so in two different moments. At the end of September 2018, I was going through a rough time and was drinking a lot. So the second half of this chapter I wrote it while I was really drunk, and it strayed a bit from my original plans.
> 
> It also didn't help me with characterization, and I had Ned laughing like a lunatic, and some cliché handling of Catelyn, Robb, and Sansa. That has been nagging at me since the start, so I decided to edit this chapter before I continue with the rest.
> 
> Since I've already posted other chapters, and I didn't want to backtrack too much because it would require even more editing, I've decided to let some of the problems remain. But I've tried making it less one-dimensional.

# JON I

Jon Snow had never seen Winterfell until today, the lands and home of his father. He was a bastard, born to some camp follower during Lord Eddard’s campaign south of the Neck. At least, those were the rumors. His father never told him anything about his mother in all the letters they had exchanged over the years. For all Jon knew, his mother was long dead. As any married lord with a bastard, the Lord of Winterfell sent his own to foster elsewhere.

During Jon’s first five years, he stayed at Greywater Watch, living with Lord Howland Reed and the crannogmen. He was then sent to White Harbor, until he was five-and-ten. Finally, he spent the following eight years being juggled around between Karhold, Last Hearth, Deepwood Motte, and Torrhen’s Square, before his father finally summoned him to Winterfell.

And Jon wouldn’t be staying long there. He had been given a task: to retrieve his younger sister, Arya Stark, and accompany her wherever she may go. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

Jon had never met his trueborn siblings. He knew he had five. Robb was four-and-twenty, like Jon, and was the heir to Winterfell. There was Sansa, who was one-and-twenty. Arya was eight-and-ten. Brandon was seven-and-ten. And, finally, Rickon was the youngest at two-and-ten. That was all Jon Snow knew of his Stark half-siblings.

Well, he knew Arya was the only one Lord Eddard ever mentioned sending their “love” to Jon in his scarce letters. But that could mean anything, really. Mayhaps a childish curiosity about a bastard brother, or an attempt at seeming polite.

He wondered why some of them were still unwed and living at Winterfell. Then again, after his half-brother Robb broke his betrothal to Wylla Manderly to marry some lesser House from the Westerlands chance met during a tourney at Riverrun, Jon doubted many lords would be willing to offer their sons and daughters to Lord Eddard for fear that the Starks would back out of their oaths.

And now this strange summons.

Jon left his belongings at a small inn in Winter Town, outside Winterfell. His lord father had warned him that Lady Stark would not allow him to be guested at the castle, so he would have to find lodgings for himself. And for Arya. So he paid for two rooms, one next to the other.

He was beginning to feel apprehensive about the whole thing.

Jon wondered if his youngest sister had gotten tangled with some guard and had been dishonored. Maybe she was heavy with child, and he’d be expected to take her far away, to hide the shame. He doubted it would be something honorable. She had her own trueborn brothers for that. No, by having the bastard do it, it had to be some dark deed.

By the time he was allowed through the gates, and then past the inner gate, his mind was full of possible situations. Each more dire than the other.

He was led to the hall, where the Lord of Winterfell and his family were having their noon meal. He bowed to them as he was announced. “Jon Snow, milord,” the steward said.

Lord Stark smiled at Jon. It had been years since he had seen his father last, and it seemed the man had aged a thousand. His hair was mostly grey, with some light brown speckled here and there. His beard was mostly dark grey. His eyes were a light shade of grey as well. And his face was wrinkled. It did not seem that his father was merely four-and-forty.

“My lord,” Jon said. “It is good to see you.”

Lady Stark was handsome but cold. She had auburn hair with grey streaks, and steely blue eyes. Like Lord Stark, she seemed to look older than she should. “Snow, you may have a seat over there,” she gestured towards the tables where servants sat.

Lord Stark’s smile faded, but then nodded. “Be welcome, Jon. We shall speak after you’ve had a taste of our bread and wine.”

With a bow to hide his own feelings, he made his way towards the table where Lady Stark felt he should be. He could not blame her. Over the years of being fostered, he’d learned his place in this world. Jon did not expect to be seated with his lord father’s family, but he had _wanted_ it. And the reminder of his position hurt.

From time to time, he glanced up at the dais where the Starks sat. He tried to take in everyone’s appearances.

There were only four of his half-siblings that he could see. But there was another who caught his attention, a young woman with chestnut hair and pretty face, sitting next to a severe looking young man, who could only be Robb. He had fiery auburn hair and steely blue eyes, like his mother. The one time he caught Jon’s gaze, he seemed to darken before looking away. The young woman had to be his wife, Jeyne Stark, formerly Westerling.

He saw a beautiful young woman, with the same coloring as her brother. And like their mother, she had an aloof air about her that made Jon feel utterly unwanted. He could not tell whether that was Sansa or Arya. He hoped it was the former, if only because he could not see himself traveling with her anywhere.

The other two were a lot less chilly when they caught him staring. A young man, shy out of boyhood, his auburn hair somewhat darker, could only be Brandon. He smiled politely at Jon, and at last he felt some warmth as he smiled back.

Rickon was still a boy. His hair was the brightest shade of red in the family, and his eyes were bright blue. He smiled just as brightly at Jon, but ducked his head when he realized his mother had caught him.

Jon turned back to his plate and didn’t look up again.

It was a terrible mistake to have come here, he thought. Save for his youngest half-brothers, and mayhaps, his father, none of them wanted him here.

And with a chill that ran down his spine, he realized that all of them took after Lady Catelyn Tully Stark. None of them had the Stark looks of his father, save Jon himself. He didn’t know whether to feel pride in that, or dread.

By the time their meal was done, the servants began cleaning up the hall.

Lord Eddard called for Jon, and he was led to his father’s solar along with his four half-siblings and their mother. Lady Jeyne had only exchanged a few quiet words with her husband, and had gone through another door.

“We’ll meet Arya in the godswood,” his father murmured to Jon in a quiet voice, as if he did not wish to be heard by the others. Judging by the way Lady Stark stiffened, she had heard him, but she said nothing.

Jon only nodded, feeling more confused and uneasy.

Once they entered the solar, Lord Stark bid them all sit down. They did, and a tense silence descended upon them as they waited for him to speak. “Very well,” he said, shoulders sagging. “I wanted to introduce you all, and give you some time to know each other.” He gestured towards Jon. “Children, this is your half-brother, Jon Snow.”

Jon did his best to remain aloof as his half-siblings and their mother gazed at him. Lady Catelyn, Robb, and Sansa were looking at him with unmasked scrutiny. He felt quite like a mouse caught in the cellar.

Brandon and Rickon, on the other hand, seemed less intense in their staring but no less curious.

No one said a word for a time.

Until Brandon spoke. “I’m Bran, and this is Rickon,” he said, confirming Jon’s assumptions. “My lady mother, Catelyn Stark,” he continued, his calm voice washing over the room, and easing some of the tension. “Robb, heir to Winterfell. The woman you saw before was Lady Jeyne, Robb’s wife.” He went on, gesturing, “and this is my elder sister, Lady Sansa.”

Jon felt an immense relief at this basic cordiality. “Well met, my lords, my ladies.” He hoped he sounded humble enough, for it seemed that Lady Stark and her elder two children were tense around him. He’d been in enough castles to know that trueborn children sometimes feared their bastard half-siblings. And everyone knew of the Targaryens and Blackfyres. While Jon did not want to appear a weakling, he also did not want to give anyone reason to mislike him.

Jon supposed that Brandon and Rickon’s age, as well as their positions in the line of succession, allowed them more freedom and less concerns. Why would they feel threatened by a bastard half-brother, if Robb was to inherit Winterfell?

Lord Stark had relaxed somewhat after his second son took over the introductions, though he still looked sad. “I’m sure you’ll all want a chance to speak to your brother later,” he said. “For now, I’ll take him to the godswood to meet Arya.”

The tension returned to the room then. And it was only at that moment that Jon thought that he might have been wrong about these people. It’s not me, he realized. Something must have happened between them and the younger daughter of Eddard Stark. It also explained why his lord father had him pay for a room for her in Winter Town.

It gave Jon hope that he may have an opportunity to befriend his half-siblings.

“ _Half_ -brother.” Jon heard the low murmur, but didn’t deign anyone with a reaction. He didn’t want to know who said it, though he had a good guess. Robb Stark was glaring at him. So much for hoping.

Lord Stark frowned, but said nothing, and merely led Jon out of the solar.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he said as they made their way out of the castle. “Things have been quite strained here. I was hoping your presence would alleviate the tensions between my children, but...” With a sigh and a shake of his head, he pressed on. “Arya would have gladly greeted you, but she’s not eating with us anymore. And my wife knows about my plans for her.”

Lord Stark was confirming some of Jon’s suspicions. At least, some of them. “May I ask, what is the trouble with my sis- I mean, half-sister?”

Lord Stark stopped, and turned to Jon with a curious expression. “Sister. Arya would take offense if she heard you calling her _half_ -sister.” He gave his son a wry smile. “You’ll find that your younger _sister_ is quite… let’s say, unique.” Then his face turned somber. “Have you ever heard about my own sister, Lyanna?”

Jon had heard the rumors and tales about his aunt. How she had been kidnapped and raped by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, which had started the war more than twenty years ago. “Some. I’m sure nothing from people who knew my aunt well.”

His father smiled sadly at him. “Aye. Well, she had some of what my father called the ‘wolf blood’. That is, she had a temper and a strong will. For a woman, that can be deadly. And it was.” He sighed. “My brother Brandon had far more ‘wolf blood’.” Jon knew who Brandon Stark had been, as people spoke more of him. His eldest uncle, a man who had been murdered by the Mad King, along with Rickard Stark, Jon’s grandfather.

Lord Stark continued, with a chuckle. “When Arya was little, I used to think she was like my sister Lyanna. She even looked like Lyanna when she was a child. But the more she grew up and the more she rebelled, the more I realized I was wrong.” He looked at Jon with a pained expression. “Arya is more like my brother Brandon. She has a temper that would put his to shame. And she has been trying to be as unladylike as possible since she could speak and move on her own.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to his father. He could see that it was something he didn’t share with anyone. “Is it really such a problem? That she’s not like other ladies, I mean,” he asked quietly.

He remembered Wylla Manderly, who was spirited and stubborn. She had ideas of womanhood that could be considered unusual. Her grandfather, Lord Manderly of White Harbor, was very lenient with her, and she had managed to convince him on many issues of her interest.

“It’s not only that she’s willful. She fights with swords,” Lord Eddard said with some despair. “To be sure, I encouraged it. I thought, if I went against her it would be worse. But if I encouraged her, then she’d tire of it.” He grimaced as Jon frowned. “I know, it sounds terrible.”

“The ladies of Bear Island fight,” Jon offered. “I’ve heard of a woman in the south who joined Lord Renly’s household a few years ago.”

Lord Stark sighed. “And you’ve heard of them because of how peculiar this is for women.”

Jon was becoming frustrated, he realized. He wasn’t sure why that was. He hadn’t even met Arya yet. For all he knew, she could look exactly like Lady Stark and be horrible to him. But the way everyone had been acting, and what his father was saying… He felt he had to defend her. “What is the problem, truly?” he heard himself ask sharply. Too sharply, perhaps. Lord Stark’s eyebrows rose. “So, she’s a woman who likes to fight. And maybe people will talk. Is that more important than your daughter’s happiness?”

As soon as his mouth closed, Jon felt completely abashed. He felt himself flush as his lord father stared at him, eyes wide in surprise. Then, before Jon could apologize, Lord Stark let out a bark of laughter. He sobered quickly, as if ashamed of his reaction. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, son.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat at the last word, but he bowed in respect. “I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to tell you how to raise your children.”

“No,” his father acknowledged. “But you spoke truly.” There was a moment of silence as he gathered his thoughts. “I do confess that part of it has to do with what others will say,” he said, but he looked so sad that Jon felt he should not interrupt. “Another part of me wants to protect her. I know she doesn’t want that, I know she can fight as well as any of my sons. But while she might not look so much like my sister anymore, I still see her when I look at Arya.”

He could understand what his father was saying. Jon hesitated, then decided he might as well say what he thought. “You said both your brother and your sister had the ‘wolf blood’,” he began, and Lord Stark looked at him expectantly. “Uncle Brandon is said to have been a great warrior, and yet he died. Aunt Lyanna, while all I’ve heard of her is that she was fierce, no one has ever described her to me as a warrior.” Jon sighed. “What I mean is… If your sons fell in battle, or your daughters in childbed, what difference would it make?”

His father looked at him quietly for what seemed like an eternity. Jon had to look down at his feet when he thought he saw tears in the older man’s eyes. “You are right, of course,” Eddard Stark said, his voice thick with emotion. “Gods, you remind me of my sister,” he murmured, shaking his head. Jon was not sure how to answer to that, but Lord Stark went on as he took control of his emotions. “Arya will never marry or bear children,” he said. “She has no interest in men, as she has told me quite plainly. And as the last scandal showed.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, he snorted. “She was found with my former steward’s daughter. Abed.”

After the emotional talk moments before, this little piece of information made Jon snort. “I’m starting to understand why everyone was acting so sour,” he muttered sardonically.

Lord Stark smiled. “To be honest, _that_ I did not find so terrible. Arya isn’t promised to anyone, and the steward’s girl was unwed and not promised to anyone either. However, she was Sansa’s best friend, and Sansa and Arya have always been at odds with each other.” Jon grimaced. His father nodded, before chuckling again. “In fact, I’m not even sure how that happened, Jeyne would always mock Arya, and Arya would always torment her back.” He shrugged. “In any case, my lady wife was furious. My son, Robb, felt it his right to punish his sister by taking away all her weapons and her armor. And Sansa… She’s always been a lady, mindful of her curtsies and words. But that day was as if she had been possessed by a demon, she said hurtful things to her sister. The fact that Arya will not speak of it is enough to convince me it was horrible.”

Jon looked around as he took all that in. They were out in the open, on their way to the godswood. It seemed to be a part of the castle where servants didn’t go much, for he had only seen one or two women scurrying about during his conversation with his father.

“I’m telling you this because Arya will likely brush it off. She likes to pretend none of it affects her,” Lord Stark continued. “But she has been looking forward to meeting you for many years, and I want you to understand that before you meet her.”

Jon turned to look at his father in surprise. He could feel the warmth spreading in his chest. “Truly?” he asked. So far, none of his half-siblings had shown any indication that they cared for him. Brandon and Rickon had been polite and welcoming, but nothing like what Lord Stark was claiming of their sister.

“Truly,” his father answered. Then he hesitated. “As if that was not enough, I did something that made Robb furious. To me, and to her. And she fears…” He paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “I hope, if what I did displeases you as well, that you will not hold it against her. I never meant for it to be taken as a slight to anyone.”

He had no way of knowing what Lord Stark had done, but Jon nodded all the same. “I promise, I won’t hold it against her.”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but our ancestors acquired a Valyrian steel greatsword many centuries ago.” Jon did know, for the sword was famed across the North, but he let his father continue. “It was called Ice, named after the sword from the Age of Heroes,” Lord Stark said. “There are some blacksmiths who know the art of reworking Valyrian steel, so I hired one of them to make two blades out of Ice.”

Jon was beginning to understand the crux of the problem. “One for your heir, and one for Arya.”

His father nodded. “I had the blacksmith add color to the steel. Blue for Robb’s. It is called Ice, as the one before, and the ancient sword of House Stark. It will still be the one to be passed down to the main branch.” With a sigh, he continued. “The other I had dyed red, and named it Fire. As you guessed, it was given to Arya and her line.” He looked at Jon expectantly.

It took a moment for Jon to realize what that meant. His father had said that Arya would not bear children of her own. When he had been a boy, he had wished he could do some great deed, and his lord father would come from Winterfell, having heard of Jon’s bravery, with a royal decree that declared him a Stark, and with the greatsword Ice, to pass it down to Jon. That was a child’s fantasy, and he was a man grown now. But that hope had never left him. He wanted to rush to the godswood to see this sister of his, who would make him her heir without ever having met him, who _wanted_ him as part of her family. “I don’t want the sword,” he said, almost breathless. “I’m not a petulant fool to dismiss my own sister for a sword. She doesn’t have to do this...”

“I’m glad to hear it,” his father said softly. “I know your worth, you know. All of the lords who have fostered you over the years had only words of praise to tell me.”

Jon looked at his feet, somewhat abashed. “Will you tell me of my mother, after I’ve spoken to my sister?” he asked suddenly.

Lord Stark closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, Jon could see an infinite sadness in them. “Come, let’s not keep Arya waiting.” With that, he turned and walked towards the gate that separated the castle grounds from the godswood.

Frustrated, Jon followed.

Lord Stark slowed his pace as they walked through the woods. “I forgot to say,” his father began. “Don’t be alarmed if we meet any direwolves.”

Jon turned to look at him, to see if he was being made mock of, but his father was serious. “Direwolves.”

“The biggest two can be ridden,” Lord Stark said, and smiled at Jon’s incredulous face. “One is Ghost, an albino and the biggest of all six. The second biggest is Nymeria. She’s Arya’s.”

Of course, Jon wanted to say. Nymeria, the first Queen of Dorne. A warrior woman.

They made it to a small clearing with a dark pond, and a large weirwood tree with a face, a heart tree. Its face was incredible to behold.

It took him moments to realize there was someone kneeling in front of the tree. A person clad in a fur cloak, as fine as his father’s. Jon could only see a mop of short brown hair. He looked at his father, and the man nodded with a small smile. As if they had been heard, the person stood and turned. And Jon nearly gasped.

It was almost as if he was looking in a mirror. To be sure, his sister’s face was devoid of a dark beard like his own, and her eyes were a lighter shade of grey, like their father’s; but her face was long and sharp, only feminine compared to his own or Lord Stark’s. Her body, Jon could tell despite the bulk of her clothes, had nearly no curves.

And, as if to prove his conclusion, Arya Stark’s face lit up with a huge, toothy grin and she went to them. “ _Brother_!” she said, her voice cheerful and loud, bouncing off the trees.

Before Jon could open his mouth, he was engulfed in a tight hug.

His sister was only a few inches shorter than him, and he was far from being a tall man. She seemed to be slender, like himself. One would think she had no strength, but she almost crushed his ribs. He managed to pat her on the back awkwardly. It was such a huge contrast with the earlier reception that he was somewhat overwhelmed.

“Well met, little sister,” he murmured.

She pulled back at that, beaming up at him, and he couldn’t help but smile. “You look just like our father,” she said, looking at his face and then at their father’s, who was observing them with a fond smile.

“So do you,” Jon blurted out. For a moment, he wondered if it could be considered an offense. But Arya turned to him, her grin growing impossibly larger. She let out a bark of laughter, and Jon realized it sounded a lot like his own, in the rare occasions he laughed out loud.

“Robb would shit himself with envy, if he heard you say that,” she said with a wolfish grin.

“Arya,” their father said in a quiet warning tone, though he smiled.

The young woman just snorted. “I was almost tempted to burst into the hall to meet you,” she said, her eyes shining with mirth. “If only to see them choke on their food.” Jon smiled weakly, not sure what to say to that. The others had made no mention of her. He could tell their father was becoming uncomfortable.

Lord Stark shook his head. “I’ll leave you two alone. Show him the direwolves, and tell him of our heart tree.”

“Yes, father,” Arya said with a rueful grin. She turned to Jon. “Did you book me a room at your inn, brother?”

“Yes,” he answered.

She let out another bark of laughter. He was oddly reminded of the Greatjon, if the Greatjon were a tiny woman. “Perfect! I shall show you around Winter Town, then. We can go meet some of the local folk.”

Jon heard an exasperated sigh from their retreating father, and another bark of laughter from his little sister.

 

To be sure, Arya Stark proved to be something else entirely. Jon found himself laughing with her, at the stories she told of her childhood rebelliousness, at her imitation of her lady mother and their siblings. She did confess that she had placed dung under their sister’s bed, more than once. In turn, Sansa and her friends would call Arya names, mocking her appearance or interest in swordfight.

Likewise, he told her about growing up in the various castles he had been fostered at, and about the friends he had made during his years around the north. He told her about his first love—Arya laughed when he pointed out he and his ‘love’ had been seven years old—and about his first kill—he had been seven-and-ten, and had been hunting raiders with the Umbers.

Jon realized he had never opened himself up to anyone before. For all the friends he had made, it had always been polite camaraderie, with shared jests and never delving too deep in matters of the heart.

A few hours later, they made their way across the castle yards. Arya told him all about the godswood, the heart tree, and the direwolves. He was able to bond with one Arya had kept exclusively for Jon.

“I swear to you, brother,” she told him, her light grey eyes serious. “I heard him.”

Jon stared at her, then at Ghost, his own direwolf. The animal made no sound. When Nymeria bit him lightly, or mock fought with him, the albino made no sound. Not a sound of pain or anger or joy. Nothing.

“Maester Luwin looked at his throat when he was a pup,” Arya told him. “He found nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing different from his litter mates. He simply makes no sound.”

It was an odd tale. She had insisted to their father to take her to see an execution. It was something only the sons of the Lord of Winterfell were allowed to witness, not the daughters. But Arya had always been rebellious of those rules, and Lord Eddard had always relented when it came to his youngest daughter.

So he had taken her, Robb, and Brandon to witness the execution of a brother of the Night’s Watch. She heard the man’s words, the Others were coming. No one believed him, but Arya had felt a chill run down her spine at those words, at the look in the man’s eyes.

Later, as they made their way back to Winterfell, she and Robb and Theon Greyjoy had found a dead direwolf, and five pups. She looked apologetically at Jon as she told the tale.

“Bran really wanted to keep his pup, and when I looked at them all, I realized… there were three males and two females,” she said.

Jon understood. “One for each trueborn Stark,” he muttered.

“Aye,” she had smiled sadly. “None of us noticed Ghost then.” Then her eyes were uneasy. “As we continued on our way home, with the five pups, I _heard_ him.”

Jon shuddered, despite himself. Even if he had known Arya for a few hours, she didn’t seem the kind of person who believed in tales with no evidence. “What do you think it means?” he asked her sincerely.

Arya looked at him for a moment, gauging him. “I believe in the Old Gods, brother. I think these direwolves were sent to us for a purpose. They obey us, they know our minds in ways no dog can. Already Ghost has taken to you and you to him.” She spoke before he could say anything. “You cannot deny it.”

She was right, of course.

When he met Ghost, the large albino direwolf, he had felt… complete. As if a part of him had been missing all his life, and now was with him. The animal stayed at his side, followed him, and understood his mood.

“I raised him myself, but it never felt the same as with Nymeria. She felt right with me. But Ghost has always been a tag-along. He obeyed me, most of the time, but he kept to himself. And when I thought of you, I knew he had to be yours.”

It unnerved Jon to think of these things. “This connection,” he began. “I’ve heard rumors, tales from old women.”

“Skinchanging. Wargs, to be exact,” Arya said plainly. “That’s what Old Nan told me and Bran.” She swallowed. “No one else will believe us. Not even father. He puts little weight in magic, he only thinks about all the wrongs he wants to right.” She rubbed at her face, a gesture of frustration.

“But you don’t,” Jon said.

“No, not anymore. I used to think of these things as fascinating tales Old Nan told us. But I’ve had dreams of being Nymeria. And Bran and Rickon have had dreams of being in their own wolves’ bodies.” She sighed. “A year ago we were visited by the Reeds. Father told me you fostered with them for a few years.”

“I left when I was five, I barely remember my time there,” Jon admitted. “I think I remember the eldest child, a daughter?”

“Aye, Meera,” Arya said. “She, and her brother Jojen, spoke with Bran and myself about these matters. Jojen claims to be a greenseer or some such.” She looked up at the darkening skies. “He said there would be a time when a lone wolf would join with his five packmates, and then two wolves would go their own way to meet with two dragons.”

Jon blinked. “Dragons?”

“His dreams can be… queer,” Arya said with a smirk. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s merely insane and says things that can be interpreted in his favor after some time.” But she shook her head. “I learned a few things from our father, and I’m no longer convinced Jojen is mad.”

“So this thing about dragons,” Jon started.

“Might be true,” Arya finished. “We shall speak more of this when we leave Winterfell. Father has forbidden me from speaking of this until we are out in the open and we can verify we are not overheard.”

He frowned at his little sister, but nodded. It was dangerous to speak out loud of some topics, he knew. You never knew who could be spying, or for who. And with Robert Baratheon on the throne and two exiled Targaryens, speaking of dragons could be deadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea to split Ice into two for Robb and Arya, by Ned himself, is a shout-out to a very interesting story called "Frosted Faith" by RevanStar.
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> **UPDATED March 13, 2019:**
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>  
> 
> So, if you by chance remember the original version of this story, it was a bit weird. I didn't handle some of the second half very well (beginning note explains why), and that led to some sort of dichotomy where it seemed I was saying Ned+Arya+Jon = good and Catelyn+Sansa+Robb = bad.
> 
> I want to thank those who commented on the characterization back then, because you've helped me a lot.
> 
> Also, I finally decided on Jon's "endgame" pairing, though it has been hinted a bit even in the original version of this chapter: Wylla Manderly. However, it will be a long while until we see them together.


	2. CATELYN I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that I changed the title. More importantly, I changed the summary. I did this because as I reworked on this chapter and certain ideas took root, I realized that the plot was going to be a lot broader than what I had originally planned. The gist is the same as before, though.
> 
> This chapter felt like running a marathon using only my fingers. It's the first time I've revised something for so long, and wrote and rewrote stuff so many, many times. I usually just proofread a bit and post, lol. I'm very lazy, and it shows. I still struggle a bit with descriptions.

# CATELYN I

Catelyn made a point of telling Jon Snow to sit at the dais with them during supper. Ned’s quiet words and hurt looks after their noon meal had made her want to tear her hair out, but she refused to lose her composure. She would have to show him that she was a dutiful wife, and above all else, understanding. Always understanding, but never understood.

What had he expected her to do that morning? To seat the boy at the dais during their meal, in Arya’s place? To rip the servants from their own meal so they would prepare a spot for Jon Snow? The long tables below them had seemed a much better choice, since there were empty places and plenty of food available. She had not intended to offend anyone, but that seemed to be the case no matter what she did nowadays.

Supper that night was a quiet, awkward affair. Arya was present as well, thankfully. But it had the unfortunate effect of making Robb and Sansa tense, so Catelyn had tried to divert their attention by rearranging the seats.

With Ned and Catelyn at the center, she decided to place Robb and his wife to her left, and Sansa at the end, so she would have her brother, her good-sister, and her mother to talk to. To Ned’s right sat Rickon, Bran, Arya, and Jon Snow. That lot got along better, so she would not have to worry about them. It was not an ideal arrangement, Catelyn knew, but it prevented everyone from being unhappy, and encouraged conversations.

The boy – the man, really –, Jon Snow, looked so much like her lord husband it hurt. She had failed to give Ned sons with the Stark looks, and the one trueborn child who took after her husband was a girl. The middle child. The wildest, most willful of all her children.

Catelyn loved her daughter with all her heart, of that there was no doubt. She could never hate the child she brought forth to this cruel world while her husband was away, fighting Balon Greyjoy, when the foolish lord had decided to crown himself King of the Iron Islands.

Yet Catelyn’s hands were tied, figuratively speaking. Ned had made it clear that he would tolerate any and all of Arya’s horrible decisions. Her husband was blinded by the love for his children and, as much as he denied it, Arya would always be his favorite.

The child who had the Stark looks, who had been compared to Lyanna Stark as a little girl, and now to Brandon Stark as a woman. Ghosts of the past. Two people who had died young. Lyanna had not accepted her place in the world, had rebelled, and had paid dearly for it. Brandon had been impulsive, not stopping to think about the consequences of his words and actions, and had been murdered by the Mad King.

It terrified Catelyn.

And people spoke. Cruel words about Catelyn, about Arya, about her husband’s natural son, about Robb, about Robb’s wife, about Sansa and her friend, the former steward’s daughter. And it was as if they were twisting a knife in her heart with each word. Why can’t they leave my family alone? Catelyn wondered.

She wished she had someone to confide in. Someone who would listen to her and understand _her_ when she spoke, instead of taking offense, or brushing her off as cruel or shallow.

Catelyn had lost her mother when she was very young, months before her tenth nameday. She had long since forgotten her face and her voice. All she remembered was the sadness of her father, her little brother Edmure crying every night of the first year without their mother, her sister needing her guidance. She had to become the Lady of Riverrun too soon, and act as a mother to her sister and her brother, ensuring they did what was expected of them.

Catelyn did what was expected of her as well.

When her lord father took a ward, Petyr Baelish, she made sure to be gracious and hospitable, despite his humble birth. In time, she had warmed up to the younger boy, and had considered him to be another little brother. She had been glad for his presence, since it gave her true little brother Edmure a male friend to play with.

When she was two-and-ten, her lord father had arranged a betrothal between her and Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell. It was a splendid match, as it cemented a good alliance with the North. She had tried not to think of the tales of the Northern Kingdom, of the cold climate and the different customs, of the stranger she would have to marry, of leaving her home and her family. Brandon was five-and-ten at the time, not much older than her, but the thought was still intimidating.

Unfortunately, Petyr didn’t agree with the match. Four years later, when the date for her wedding was set, he thought himself above his station, and demanded a duel for Catelyn’s hand in marriage. It was foolish and embarrassing. Brandon Stark was a man grown, and Petyr scarcely a boy. Her betrothed spared the boy’s life at her request, but still managed to gravely injure him.

Petyr was bedridden for a fortnight, with only Lysa and the maester to keep him company. He had refused to see Edmure, because her brother had squired for Brandon. And Catelyn herself felt it was not proper to visit him.

Things only worsened from that point, though Catelyn had been ignorant of it until the consequences were impossible to hide. Lysa had gotten with child by Petyr, and had nearly died birthing the little girl, nine months later; a natural daughter her sister named Alayne Rivers. Their lord father had been furious at them all. At Catelyn, for not knowing of the relationship. At Lysa, for falling in love with a boy of such low birth. At Petyr, for soiling and ruining his youngest daughter, and for the challenge for his eldest.

Lord Tully had sent Petyr away as soon as the maester had deemed it safe for the boy to travel, back to his family’s lowly hold at the Fingers. That had been shortly before Brandon had ridden off to meet with Lord Rickard Stark, who was on his way to Riverrun for the wedding. Somewhere along the way, they had found out about Lyanna’s abduction by Prince Rhaegar. From there, Brandon had left with a small party, rushing to King’s Landing to demand for his sister’s return.

Once the war broke out, and it seemed that the Riverlands’ loyalty would have to be secured by the rebels, her father had hastily wed Catelyn and Lysa to Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Jon Arryn respectively. Ned had seemed a poor copy of his brother Brandon, and Jon Arryn was even older than her lord father.

It would have been wondrous that a high lord such as Lord Arryn would have wed Lysa, after she had birthed a natural child, but the old man had been wed twice, and had only managed to produce a stillborn daughter. No, the reason for his acceptance had been the necessary alliance between the Vale and the Riverlands, and because his nephew and, later, his cousin had both been slain; his only heirs. And, with Lysa being dishonored but proven fertile, Jon Arryn was assured that he would have an heir by her.

Catelyn had felt bad for her sister. With such a history, it was probable that Lord Jon Arryn was close to infertile. And, indeed, Lysa only had stillbirths and miscarriages for years; until she died birthing Lord Jon’s only son, Robert Arryn. The boy would now be five-and-ten, and the heir to the Vale, though some rumored he was unfit for the position.

As for Catelyn’s natural niece, Alayne had been sent off to live with Petyr Baelish at his keep. But she had turned up at the Bloody Gates one day, with an escort from Longbow Hall, begging for help. She had scarcely been a child, recently flowered, and her escape had been an ordeal she had only shared with Catelyn’s uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, known as the Blackfish and the Knight of the Bloody Gate. Whatever the girl had told him had been enough for the old knight to gather a party and take ship to Baelish Keep, a dismal little hold in the smallest of the Fingers.

Petyr had been arrested by Ser Brynden, and had been taken to the sky cells of the Eyrie, the ancestral Arryn castle, to await Lord Arryn’s judgment. However, because Jon Arryn had been the Hand of the King – and _still_ was – he had to travel from King’s Landing by ship, and it took him weeks to arrive at the Eyrie. The sky cells only had three walls, and the prisoners were welcome to “escape” by throwing themselves into the abyss to their certain deaths. And, Petyr Baelish had done just that. Rather than face justice for what he had done, he had chosen the coward’s way out.

It hurt to think that the boy she had loved as a brother had turned into a monster. Catelyn would never forget the letter Ser Brynden had sent, the words often echoed in her mind and sent a shiver down her spine: _I cannot speak of it, nor_ _will I_ _write it. It is heinous,_ _what he did_ _._ And then, _She looks like you when you were her age, Cat. She’s a sweet girl._

Petyr’s lands were granted to Alayne, and the girl was legitimized as a Tully by King Robert at Lord Arryn and Ser Brynden’s request. She would stand to inherit from the Blackfish, since Lord Hoster Tully had wanted nothing to do with the girl. Lysa had been dead for a few years by then, so the Lord of the Vale had allowed the girl to join his own household and become her half-brother’s caretaker.

Lysa had died ignorant of Petyr’s true nature, Catelyn knew. Her rare letters to her older sister were always of praise to the little man who had put a babe in her belly and ruined her prospects. But Lysa never seemed to care. Sometimes she told Catelyn of her daughter Alayne, of how smart she was, like her father.

Though now she was a woman grown, four-and-twenty, if Catelyn’s memory did not fail her.

Catelyn was engrossed in her thoughts as she ate her supper. Around her, the conversations between her children, her husband, and his natural son were quiet and polite. She was glad of it, knowing that they had been making a poor impression throughout the day.

Sansa spoke quietly with Jeyne Westerling – no, _Stark_ , remember! – and Robb, and did her best to avoid whatever conversation was being had on the other side of the table. Mostly, she looked into her plate and only replied when addressed. The boys had all gotten it into their thick heads that she would feel better if no one spoke to her. And Arya was too wary of how Sansa would react to try and include her into the talks with their younger brothers and Jon Snow.

Catelyn wanted to think of a way to fix Sansa and Arya’s relationship. Her heart twisted at the memories of the past year. When had things turned so sour?

To be sure, her daughters had never gotten along. No matter how hard Catelyn and Ned had tried, they could not make their daughters tolerate each other. And over the years, as Arya became more and more mannish, Sansa had become more and more scornful of her sister. But it had not been like _this_.

Of course, Arya gave as good as she got. And, lately, her own wrath had turned violent and unpredictable. The last time the sisters had argued, in the godswood for some reason Catelyn never found out, Bran had to tell Sansa to run back to the castle. He had returned with scratches and bruises, and refused to tell anyone what had happened. Arya had appeared hours later, looking haggard and somber.

Even now, Bran would often look at his sister with trepidation, as if expecting her to burst into action at any moment. And Arya would look at her younger brother with something akin to remorse. All Sansa had told her mother was that her sister’s eyes had turned yellow, for just a moment, like her direwolf’s.

Catelyn had gone to both Arya and Sansa many times, begging for them to forgive each other, reminding them that they were women grown, sisters, family. But her eldest daughter saw this as betrayal, as her mother choosing one daughter over the other. And after the incident with the steward’s daughter, she had only turned sourer.

And Arya… Arya would not understand Catelyn’s concerns. Like Sansa, she believed her mother took her sister’s side in all matters. She could not comprehend that Catelyn wanted to protect her from the world, from the scorn of men, from the possibility of rape, of certain death in a battle or fight against any man.

As if that wasn’t enough, Ned refused to see things through Sansa’s perspective, and would often speak harshly to her. Catelyn knew that he did it out of concern, not anger or dislike, for Sansa’s words sometimes bordered on cruelty. It hurt to know her sweetest, gentlest daughter could say such things and seemingly not care about her own sister.

To be sure, neither Catelyn nor Ned had ever dealt with such a broken relationship between siblings in their own childhoods. Her husband had told her of a few arguments with Brandon, but never to the point where it tore them apart. Likewise, she never had such thing happen between her and her siblings.

And her sons... Robb was deeply displeased by Ned’s gesture with the swords, Catelyn knew. Offended and shamed, as only a young man could when his father treated his younger sister as he would his heir. As much as he loved his sisters, Robb was a man, and men were not equal to women. One thing was to spar with Arya, humor her in her silly plays, and another thing was to treat her as his peer. This he had said to Catelyn, when they spoke about his treatment of his sister. He was to be the Lord of Winterfell, he was the heir, and already commanded respect from the household and some of the sons of House Stark’s bannermen. As a mother, she understood him. As a woman...

And however much Bran loved and admired his sister, Catelyn could see that, as a second son and the only one who wished to become a knight out of all his siblings, it had hurt him to be bypassed. Unlike Robb, her sweet son did not shun Arya. Their relationship was tense, but they still remained close. In a way, Robb’s anger and Sansa’s words had ensured that Bran did not voice his own feelings. For one of the best qualities of her second son was his diplomacy.

Rickon was still a boy, as much as he didn’t like to be reminded of it, and he understood little of the implications of what was happening with their family. He had been most vocal against Robb and Sansa, thinking them to be unfair to Arya.

Catelyn had been forced to take Bran and Rickon and speak with them privately about making a scene in front of the servants and other people who were not their immediate family. She had tried to explain as fairly as she could about the swords, about allowing Arya to act the way she always did, about that abhorrent incident with Jeyne Poole – much to her dismay, they found _that_ amusing. She could only hope that they were more restrained than their sister when they decided to seek the company of women.

They couldn’t understand, anymore than Ned could. At least, being her sons and still young, they knew better than to defy her openly. So they had remained quiet during their noon meal, when their half-brother had arrived.

As always, her husband did not see her concerns as valid. To him, the gesture with the swords had been no different than the two statues he had made of his elder brother and his little sister in the crypts. That, too, had been something no other Stark had ever done in thousands of years. It seemed Ned wanted to break with all traditions, and damned be the consequences.

To be sure, the Valyrian greatsword _Ice_ had not been the same ancient sword from the Age of Heroes, merely named after it. However, it had been at least four to five hundred years old, and of great value. Few Houses could boast to having a weapon made of Valyrian steel. She could imagine Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock salivating at the thought of buying one of the swords.

Catelyn thought many of her husband’s decisions stemmed from the fact that he was never properly trained to be a lord. He had been a second son, his elder brother had been a man grown and had been groomed to be the next Lord of Winterfell. With the sudden loss of both Lord Rickard and Brandon, there was no one to teach Ned what he needed to know to be Warden of the North.

By no means was he terrible, but his lack of appreciation for traditions and protocol made it difficult for him to be aware of the effects it had on their rule over the North.

And already Catelyn had to deal with letters from lesser lords who made demands above their stations, while others saw fit to withhold their taxes. And there had not been any proposals of betrothals or marriage alliances since Robb’s broken promise to the Manderlys, two years ago. One of the last ones had been from the ancient Lord Walder Frey, who wished to marry off a daughter to Bran. But her second son had shown no interest. Besides, she suspected he had his eye set on Lord Reed’s daughter, who had visited Winterfell along with her brother a year ago; though he had not told Catelyn of his feelings.

Sansa had taken that as a personal slight to herself, especially when the rumors about her friendship with Jeyne Poole had begun circulating, less than a year ago. With Arya’s actions had come the consequences for her sister, though she could not understand them.

For now, none of those things were cause to be alarmed. But if they were overlooked or ignored too long, Catelyn feared they would attract the notice of King Robert and the other high lords.

The more immediate matter was the trouble that had begun stirring in the Bolton lands bordering the Hornwood and Stark lands. Lord Halys Hornwood had died in a hunting accident a year ago, and now there were whispers of a band of brigands led by Ramsay Snow, Lord Bolton’s natural son; his only remaining son after his trueborn died of an illness ten years ago.

With the Manderlys south of the Hornwood lands, and Lord Manderly being cousin to Lady Donella Hornwood and her son, Lord Daryn Hornwood, it was a disaster waiting to happen. The Lord of White Harbor had sent them a barbed letter requesting for immediate action, and then had the gall to make a comment about broken promises.

Lord Daryn had also written, though his tone was cordial and had assured them that he could handle the raiders, but he welcomed any assistance Winterfell could provide.

Ser Rodrik had informed her that the smallfolk living in the lands between Winterfell and the Dreadfort’s borders had been reporting crimes which had been mounting in severity and frequency over the past three months: rapes, murders, tortures, burned fields and houses, disappearances, and so on.

And through it all, Lord Roose Bolton had been silent.

It would not do. She would have to broach the matter with her lord husband. Yet another thing to argue about, she had no doubt.

Lately, Catelyn found herself performing the duties Ned should be attending to. For the past year or so, he had begun withdrawing into himself, prone to brooding in the godswood or in the crypts. He would spend hours with Arya and Bran, speaking quietly, and breaking off their conversations whenever she or their other children approached them.

She had long ago learned to not ask him about his secrets. When she had tried questioning him about Jon Snow’s mother, after hearing the rumors about Ashara Dayne, a beautiful woman from an island near the Red Mountains of Dorne, Ned had seemed so fierce and angry. For a moment, she had thought he would strike her. He had demanded where she had heard the rumors, and later had ensured that no one ever spoke of that woman again within Winterfell.

Ned’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and brought her back to the Great Hall, to their supper. “Jon,” he said, gaining the attention of his natural son. Arya and Bran quieted down to also hear what he would say. “I want you and Arya to begin preparations. You have a long journey ahead.”

Their daughter nodded, and a heated but quiet conversation broke out between her and Bran, with Jon Snow interjecting from time to time. Catelyn took the opportunity to speak with her husband. “So soon?” she blurted out. “The boy just got here. Surely, you’d want him to rest a few days?”

Ned looked at her strangely. “I didn’t think you’d be so concerned for Jon’s well-being,” he whispered to her. It was as if he had slapped her.

“Despite what you may think, _my lord_ ,” she ground out just as quietly. “I’m not a cruel person.” She took a small sip of water from her cup to cool her thoughts for a moment. “I was hoping, as well as you did, that his presence would smooth things over between our daughter and the rest of the children.”

With a sigh, Ned took her hand gently in his. “I’m sorry, Cat. I did not mean to imply that you are heartless. It’s just… You’ve never shown me that you cared about him.”

Their whispering was not seemly, she knew. “I won’t claim to love him, but neither will I claim I wish him harm,” she said, sharper than she intended. “I know you had him pay for rooms in Winter Town. I did not wish to go behind your back, husband, but I will have you know I do not think it wise to send him and Arya away from the castle at night. Nevertheless, have them stay there for tonight. It might do her some good to have a friendly ear away from the castle. But tell him a room shall be prepared for him for as long as he will be staying here. And Arya is to return to hers as well.”

Her husband regarded her quietly, and then his eyes turned sad. “Cat,” Ned whispered. “I’m sorry, truly. I...”

Catelyn found herself smiling at him. She didn’t feel like it, but the regret in his eyes tugged at her heart. She knew she had earned that mistrust, for she could never prevent her body from tensing at the mention of her husband’s natural son, nor she could take back the words she had said to him during the first year of their marriage, when she had told him she never wanted to see the boy set a foot in Winterfell while she lived. The wound of her sister’s dishonor had been fresh in her heart, and with Ned bringing his own natural son from the south, it festered. And when Ned had suggested she bring her natural niece to Winterfell, as a bargain to bring Jon Snow as well, she had taken it as another slight. “It makes no matter.”

“He won’t be staying here long,” Ned said, reassuring. Louder, he addressed the children – adults, really – to his right. “I’m afraid we cannot delay any longer, Arya,” he said, his voice grave. “Winter is coming.”

Arya turned somber at that, and nodded. “When shall we depart, Father?”

Ned paused, glanced briefly at Catelyn, then turned back to his daughter. “Two days hence,” he said simply. “Say your farewells, and spend time with _all_ your siblings,” he said pointedly, and their daughter grimaced but did not protest.

Jon Snow seemed confused at the exchange, but remained quiet. Catelyn was beginning to realize that the similarity between her husband and his natural son was not only in appearance.

Rickon seemed troubled at the news, and looked at his sister as a kicked pup would at its attacker. “You’re _leaving_ us?”

Arya smiled at her youngest brother, and Catelyn noted the smile did not reach her eyes. “Not for long, little wolf,” she said, her voice straining to sound cheerful. “I have some errands to run, for Father.”

Rickon chewed his lip, but nodded and gave her an uneasy smile. Arya ruffled his hair.

Bran nudged his sister lightly. “We will miss you,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“We have two days,” Arya said, waving a hand sharply in irritation, the tone she took whenever she wanted to seem indifferent about her feelings. Bran chuckled, and turned to his food.

But Catelyn knew her daughter, and she knew the young woman would be suffering inside. The path Arya had taken, she knew, would not permit her to show emotions as normal women would. It was the price she’d have to pay to be in this world of men.

“My lord, might I ask where we will go?” Jon Snow finally seemed to have found his voice.

Ned swallowed a bite of his food before replying. “You shall go to Castle Black, to deliver the supplies the Lord Commander has requested of us. And you shall gather information on the King Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder.” He left his natural son mull over it for a moment, before continuing. “Also, you will want to see your Uncle Benjen again.”

Jon Snow finally smiled. “Aye. I haven’t seen him in over five years. Not since I was fostered at Last Hearth.”

“Good. Then you will have much to talk about,” Ned said with a smile of his own.

The night ended much better than what Catelyn had anticipated. Arya, Sansa, and Robb had behaved impeccably. While Robb and Sansa did not speak directly to Arya, none of them had been discourteous to one another. She could only hope it wasn’t just a mummer’s farce for their half-brother’s sake, and that this peace would last.

  


In the morning, Catelyn made her way to Maester Luwin’s tower, to see if there were any new messages or matters to attend to. She passed by the training yard, and saw Robb and her husband’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, along with Jon Snow and, to her utter surprise, Arya.

Catelyn approached quietly, and tried to remain out of sight.

Robb and Theon were sparring with tourney swords, while Jon Snow and Arya watched not far from them, talking softly to each other.

She had seen her son and Theon spar many times, and it did not surprise Catelyn when Theon ended up sprawled on the muddy ground. “Yield,” he said with an easy smile, and Robb helped him up.

Her eldest son turned to Jon Snow and Arya, who had stopped their conversation to nod and congratulate him. It wasn’t the enthusiastic cheering that had filled the yard a mere year ago, when Robb and Arya were still speaking, but it was a vast improvement, in Catelyn’s opinion. She wondered what had caused such an abrupt change. Was it Jon Snow? Or had Ned spoken to Robb?

“Want to give it a try… Arya?” Robb asked, his voice uncertain.

Arya seemed taken aback, but Jon Snow’s lips had formed a small smile and he nudged her towards their brother, whispering something that made her chew her lip. With a sharp movement of her head that could have passed for a nod, Arya took Theon’s offered sword and walked over to Robb.

They circled each other, like a pair of wolves that had stumbled upon each other in the middle of the woods and were not confident whether they would be friends or foes.

Catelyn’s heart lurched, and her eyes filled with tears that blurred her vision. She heard the clash of the swords, as brother and sister made a clumsy show of sparring. They were trying, she knew. They were _trying_. And it was all that mattered. Let Ned keep his secrets. She would have this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, I have done Catelyn some justice (and Sansa and Robb as well). There is a lot of background stuff in this chapter that shows us some of the big differences between canon and this story. Some are events, and others are slight variations in personality for certain characters (though, in the case of Littlefinger, it wasn't that far-fetched).
> 
> I had to watch a few Robert's Rebellion videos to figure out a few things that are really, really vague in canon (by design, and hopefully we'll have answers in the last two books). So, technically, I'll be using some of the popular "theories" (such as R+L=J). I'm not a book purist, but I have only watched the show once during each season. Still, I don't think I can hold all 1001 plot threads from the books. It will be similarly to the show in that there will be fewer characters and plots to follow.
> 
> As this chapter should clarify, the characters are not "aged up", but the main catalyst for canon ASOIAF has been averted. This gave our characters a few more years to grow up and mature. I wanted to make it believable and avoid the simplistic "they're just older" approach.
> 
> I have found one of the best Arya fanarts that closely resembles how I picture her in this story: https://www.deviantart.com/alvarias/art/Game-of-Thrones-Arya-Stark-376969518
> 
> This is another one that shows the differences and similarities between Arya, Lyanna, and Jon (and you can see one of my favorite renditions of Theon, too): https://www.deviantart.com/grimhel/art/Game-of-thrones-402880682
> 
>  
> 
> There is a small hint at some magical differences as well, which will be explored in future chapters. I'm not a big fan of adding huge magical changes to canon, so don't worry, we won't see people flying across the Narrow Sea on unicorns that fart rainbows. ;) That said, there will be some usage of certain theories based on canon and GRRM's nod at certain other authors (that won't come for a looooong time though).
> 
>  
> 
> Of this chapter, you might be glad to learn I rewrote this so many times I managed to cut out the cheese I had added, a retelling of an anecdote with Theon and Arya. I might mention it some other day in a later chapter, _in passing_. But it was really bad. If you haven't noticed from my other stories, I'm the King of Cheese. All my stories reek of it. :P
> 
>  
> 
> Joking aside, and to finish this long-ass note that nobody will read: I hope it's become clearer that something's going on beyond what was said in the first chapter, and that characters aren't all-knowing and POVs are very subjective. As such, sometimes characters will refer to themselves and others in certain ways. For an extreme example from canon, think of Cersei's POV chapters.
> 
> Don't expect characters (POV or non-POV) to be the "good guys" and be perfect, and do or think nothing wrong. Likewise, don't expect them to be evil, especially if a POV character thinks harshly of a non-POV character.


	3. JON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon Snow attempts to fix people's problems.

# JON II

Jon Snow knew _something_ was amiss.

It was his second day at Winterfell, and already things were far from what he had imagined. While his half-siblings were having trouble and Lady Stark remained distant – not that he had expected to be welcomed with open arms – it had not been so bad as what Lord Stark had mentioned in his letter. Either his father was prone to exaggerating, lousy at understanding his family, or a downright liar. Jon was inclined to believe the second option, if only because he didn’t want to think badly of his father.

Jon had spoken with Robb earlier in the morning, in the training yard, when he arrived at the castle. Arya had stayed behind. Apparently she had spent the night drinking and playing dice. He was not sure what to make of that, but after she threw a pillow at him when he tried waking her up, Jon decided to head to the castle alone.

At first, Jon thought his conversation with Robb would not go well. The elder of his half-siblings was a man grown, set in his ways, and being the heir to Winterfell had made him grow faster than his other siblings. Jon had seen such looks from his foster families. The younger siblings always had a few more choices than the heirs.

Bran would be free to become a knight. No doubt Lord Stark would find him a suitable knight for him to squire for. Perhaps, he would go to the Vale, to Ser Brynden Tully, his own great-uncle.

Rickon was not sure what he wanted to do yet, he told Jon the night before during supper. He didn’t seem partial to southron customs like Bran or Sansa, and seemed to be as wild as their sister Arya. Though, being a boy, it worked in his favor.

Sansa was the most difficult of his half-siblings to relate to. The northern ladies Jon had met as he moved from castle to castle were graceful yet casual in their everyday activities. Some would go as far as do some chores southron ladies would leave up to the servants. But Sansa was nothing like them. He wasn’t sure if it was because of their relation, him getting along with Arya, or her southron inclinations, but she seemed distant, merely cordial.

Jon had made the mistake of taking Lord Stark’s words to heart on his first day, and nearly allowed himself to believe that his family was easily defined as black and white. Or as fire and ice.

Robb was the first to dissuade him of that notion. “We did not grow up together, you and I,” the man began, looking at Jon with hard blue eyes. He was taller than Jon, with broad shoulders and a fierce northern appearance that was contrasted by his Tully coloring of auburn hair and bright blue eyes. “But you are my half-brother and I will not turn you away. You must forgive my lack of manners yesterday. This past year has been hard on this family. It’s not just Arya’s willfulness that has our nerves frayed. Sansa has been furious, and I find myself unable to keep the peace between them. And our father,” Robb shook his head. “Father has been acting strange, even before the Jeyne Poole thing.”

Jon didn’t know if he should ask, but his half-brother seemed to have read his thoughts.

“It started around the time the Reed siblings came here. You know of them?”

Jon nodded. “I vaguely remember Meera from my time at Greywater Watch. Jojen was a babe in arms when I was taken to White Harbor,” he explained.

“Well, they visited a year ago. They spent a lot of time in the godswood with Father and Bran, and sometimes with Arya. They always seemed to be speaking about something important, but whenever I or Sansa or even my mother approached them, they would change the subject.”

Jon suddenly felt wary. If it had anything to do with the dragons and the wolves, it seemed his father had not seen fit to tell his other children, or his lady wife. He was not even sure what Bran knew exactly. So far, only Arya had mentioned the cryptic prediction. The last thing Jon wanted was to give Robb a reason to be angry with him.

His brother was not done, though. “Then the Reeds left. Arya began acting wilder than before. Father seemed to withdraw from the world, and now he spends most days brooding. And Bran passes the time he’s not training by going to the godswood to help Rickon and Arya with their ability.”

It was frustration, confusion, and deep concern, Jon realized. Robb seemed to be venting, more than telling him what was going on.

“Then the thing with Jeyne Poole happens, Sansa becomes impossibly furious. And what does Father do? He has Ice reforged into two opposite but equal swords, and gives them to Arya and myself,” Robb finished with a sigh. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to dump this on you.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m going to be honest, I want to understand what is going on with all of my half-siblings,” he said. “One thing I need to understand is, why is it such a problem that Arya prefers women?”

Robb hesitated. “I’m not… Look, I don’t care who Arya beds, men or women, that is her life. We’ve known for years that she wouldn’t be eligible for a marriage. She’s beyond unconventional, no man will take her, and she’ll kill whoever attempts to tame her. I’ve only ever known women like my mother, like Sansa, like my wife. To me, Arya is… an oddity. She’s my sister, and I love her,” he rushed to say. “I do not say these things with hate or anger. I do not understand how a woman can be like her, truth be told. I don’t know if she can be truly happy that way. She’s not a man and she is not a woman. Who would want her?”

Jon frowned. He could understand what his brother was saying. The women of the north were a hardened bunch, unlike the things he’d heard of the ladies of the south. But so far, he had not met one like his younger sister. Wylla Manderly had been high-spirited and sharp as a blade, always challenging men into a combat of wits, but she wore dresses and worried about her image as any other lady. She was not interested in fighting, though she kept a small knife upon her person for protection. She had been one of his best friends while he fostered at White Harbor. She did not care about his status, and therefore, Lord Wyman Manderly had welcomed him at their table on occasions. The large man doted on both his granddaughters, and there was little he objected to when it came to them.

The only women that seemed similar to Arya were those of Bear Island. Though Jon had never met them personally, he had heard enough to know they were fearsome. Yet, like Wylla Manderly, they still were considered ladies and women who accepted the duties of their sex. He remembered his friend telling him about a carving of a woman somewhere in Bear Island, with a battleaxe in one hand and a babe at the breast on her other arm. It was something he doubted represented Arya’s spirit.

And he had heard of a woman, notorious for her size and strength, and the fact that Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End had accepted her service. The tales had been filled with derision and no more details.

“This girl, Jeyne Poole, seemed to want her,” Jon offered, though he did not know the circumstances of their relationship.

Robb shook his head. “That, Arya admitted it was a one-time occurrence. And it was enough to cause so much trouble. If only it had been some other servant.” He sighed. “Jeyne Poole had been Sansa’s best friend since I can remember. Our sisters never got along, but as long as Sansa had her friends and Arya had hers, things were tolerable.” He grimaced. “When Arya and Sansa’s friend did what they did, it crossed a line for Sansa.”

Jon felt he would have to speak with Sansa. “And this was when, exactly?”

His brother looked up to the sky, in concentration. “Around half a year or so ago. Things now are _calmer_ than they were,” he answered with the first grin Jon saw of the heir to Winterfell.

Despite himself, Jon found himself smiling back. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t show up earlier,” he jested, and Robb chortled.

“You would have witnessed complete chaos, Snow.” Robb ran a hand through his auburn hair. “I wasn’t any happier than Sansa, mind you. That mess brought rumors and comparisons that were very damaging to us all. My wife’s name is Jeyne. It’s ridiculous, but people would say Arya and my wife were having an affair,” he said wrinkling his nose. “Jeyne had to stop talking to her, even though they had always gotten along quite well. My wife had been one of the few people who could bridge the gap between Arya and Sansa.” He sighed again. “And Sansa’s friendship with Poole was questioned. I had been trying to start talks of a betrothal for Sansa with the Karstarks, but suddenly they found matches elsewhere. Too much of a coincidence. And,” here he blushed, “well, my own actions a few years ago didn’t help matters.”

Jon shrugged. “They can’t hold that over you all your life,” he said simply. It was not his place nor his wish to berate his half-brother. “So, your wife, was it love?” he ventured to ask.

Robb’s face dissolved into a large smile. “Aye,” he said. “It was something unexpected. My mother sent me to the tourney at Riverrun so I could meet my uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, and discuss trade deals. It seems the Westerlings had business with my uncle as well. I found Jeyne in a corner after I left my uncle’s solar, and noticed she had been crying. Her mother had been trying to _offer_ her to my uncle like cattle, but he was not to her liking.” At this, Robb shook his head. “We talked, and I told her of my betrothal to Wylla Manderly, and how I was not looking forward to marrying her. I was just trying to be friendly,” he said, at Jon’s frown, though he likely did not know of Jon’s friendship with Lord Manderly’s granddaughter. “But one thing led to another, and well, we decided to do what our hearts told us to do.”

“I can’t imagine things going well with her family,” Jon commented.

“No, they were furious at her, at me. What’s worse, Tywin Lannister was said to be displeased, and Father was concerned it would come down to war. I offered Jeyne’s family some lands on the New Gift, since Father and uncle Benjen had been talking of resettling the Gifts. Jeyne’s younger brother, Rollam, took the offer gladly, but their parents went back to their lands and struck some deal with the Lannisters. Raynald, the older brother, hopes he can reach out to us when the lordship passes to him.”

It seemed too hopeful to Jon, but he said nothing. For a moment they prepared the blunted swords in the practice yard in silence. “Will you speak with Arya before we leave?” he asked, after a while.

Robb paused, then sighed. “I suppose I shall,” he said. “I don’t know what to say to her. She doesn’t listen, always takes things as a slight.”

“Just as you took the thing with the swords as a slight?” Jon asked quietly.

Robb turned red. The look was absurd on him, with his red hair and beard. “That… You don’t know what it means...” he began.

“The family sword, made of Valyrian steel, named after the famed sword from the Age of Heroes,” Jon said. “It’s a symbol for the Lord and the heir of Winterfell, aye.”

“There can be no two heirs, least of all a daughter when there are three sons,” Robb told him with a frown.

Jon sighed. “I don’t think Lord Stark meant to imply that she’s an heir.”

His brother crossed his arms. “Well, what did he mean by it?”

He thought for a moment before replying. “This is merely speculation on my part,” he admitted. “I think he only meant to acknowledge her in a way is significant to her. He doesn’t need to do that with you, or even Brandon and Rickon, because none of you will ever have to fight to be heard. You are Stark _men_ , and people will always listen to you; heir, second, or even third son. And Sansa is comfortable with her position as a lady, and has been trained all her life to wield that kind of power. But what are Arya’s possibilities? Her prowess as a fighter will always be mocked, she has no desire or ability to be a lady. In this world, there is no in-between. You’re either one thing or the other.”

As Jon spoke, he thought of himself, the bastard son of a great lord. The bastard of Lord Stark. More than once had he been called _Lord Snow_ mockingly by the lowborn men and boys he was trained with. And the nobles were no better, always reminding him that he was no more than a bastard. People like Wylla Manderly were rare, even in the North.

Robb was looking at him with an odd expression, something between shame and realization. “I never thought of it that way.”

“I’m not saying your feelings are not valid,” Jon hurried to say.

His brother waved a hand. “No, I understand what you meant,” Robb said. “Thank you, Jon. You’ve given me much to think about.”

The sincerity of the statement blew Jon away. He was going to make a lame jest, he was sure, when they heard two people laughing and walking towards them, immerse in conversation.

Theon Greyjoy was Lord Stark’s ward, though he was a hostage in truth. Jon hadn’t paid much attention to the man the day before, but now he was walking towards them with Arya. He was a tall man, with dark hair, a large nose, and a perpetual smirk on his face.

“Robb, Jon Snow,” the man greeted them, and Arya nodded at them both, her smile vanishing as she approached them.

“Theon, Arya,” Robb said.

Jon had to bite back a smile at Arya’s surprise. She gave a hesitant nod at Robb, and Jon decided to see if he could help them out. “Hello, little sister. Do you feel well rested now?”

Arya rolled her eyes, and punched him on the arm. “Unlike _some people_ , I prefer to wait until dawn before I get out of bed.”

It was Jon’s turn to roll his eyes. “There was already daylight when I left the inn!” He rubbed at his arm where she had struck him. “You know, you can hit those fellows over there,” he gestured towards a couple of mock warriors stuffed with straw. His sister only stuck out her tongue at him.

“Well, I think it’s time to spar,” Greyjoy said loudly. “If Ser Rodrick gets here and sees us behaving like brats he will have us drilling until midnight.” Robb nodded, and passed him a tourney sword.

Jon and Arya gave them space, and watched both men train for a while.

“So, what did you talk about?” she asked him in a low voice. She seemed curious, and Jon could also see some concern in her eyes. Worried that I’ll stop caring about her after talking to Robb for a few minutes? Jon wondered.

“Oh, we talked about snarks and grumkins,” Jon said easily.

Arya scoffed and punched him again, but she couldn’t hide a smirk of her own. After a moment, she sobered. “Nothing bad, I hope?” she insisted, trying to sound indifferent, yet he heard the worry in her voice.

Jon looked at her. “Nothing bad, I promise. I heard his part, just as I heard yours. I told you last night I don’t want to be in the middle of a Stark fight,” he reminded her, then he smiled. “But, should the need arise, you can count on me.” She seemed surprised at that, and he ruffled her short hair. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, little sister.”

Arya looked at her feet for a moment, but when she looked up at him again she was grinning. He didn’t mention the way her eyes were shinning. “I am glad you’re here, brother,” she said.

“I’m glad to be here,” he told her. “There’s one thing I hope we can achieve before we leave. Well, several things,” Jon said. “Father already told you last night, but I feel I have to ask the same. You should speak with all of our siblings before we leave.”

His little sister groaned, rubbing at her face. “Fine! But only because _you_ asked.”

They were interrupted by Greyjoy falling, after he backed up from a particular savage cut by Robb. He just smiled as he said, “Yield.”

Jon and Arya both nodded at Robb in congratulations, as their brother helped Greyjoy to his feet.

Jon thought it was odd that Greyjoy would lose so easily, but it made sense when Robb turned to them, a hesitant look on his face. “Want to give it a try… Arya?”

Arya stiffened next to him, and he gave her a gentle nudge. “Come on, little sister. We have a long journey ahead, we shouldn’t leave with angry words,” he whispered. She chewed her lip, before nodding and walking towards Robb.

Greyjoy gave her his practice sword and stepped aside. Him and Jon watched as Robb and Arya sparred cautiously.

  


The rest of the morning was a blur of activity for Jon. He left Arya with Robb and Greyjoy and met with Rickon and Bran, who were heading to the godswood. Bran had wanted to help Jon with his skinchanging skills – Jon still was not sure whether his little brother was japing or serious – and Rickon was already practicing his own ability, sitting cross-legged not far from them. Shaggydog, his black direwolf walked back and forth among the trees, stopping to scratch at the bark of a tree here, pick up a small rock there. Once, he even sat on his haunches and lifted his front paws towards Jon, as if waving.

Bran chuckled when he saw Jon’s incredulous face. “He’s practicing control. And showing off a bit.”

“He’s also a skinchanger?” Jon asked stupidly.

“All six of us are skinchangers,” Bran told him as they sat in front of the heart tree. “In addition, I’m a greenseer.”

“Like Jojen Reed?” Jon asked, remembering what Arya had told him the day before.

Bran looked at him oddly. “No. Jojen is not a greenseer, but he has the greensight. The terms might sound similar, but they are different. Let me guess, Arya told you this?” At Jon’s nod, he sighed. “She never pays attention when I explain these things to her.”

Jon had to smile, that sounded like their sister. “So, what is the difference?”

Bran seemed pleased that he asked, and launched into an explanation. Jon thought his little brother would make a very good teacher one day. He told Jon that greensight was the ability to have green dreams, which were prophetic and symbolic. Greenseers had both the greensight and the ability of skinchanging, and they could also look through the eyes of the carvings on the weirwood trees.

“What about the others? Is anyone else in the family a greenseer?”

Bran shook his head. “No, but Rickon and Arya are what was once known as warg warriors. We had to look deep into this to learn what this was. The maester at Castle Black allowed Maester Luwin to go and search the library there. For a while we thought he would never return,” he chuckled. “He said the library was filled with all manner of accounts from thousands of years ago. But what he found out about the warg warriors was only a description. It is said that while a warg enters the body of a wolf, the warg warrior allows part of the wolf to enter their human body during battle.

“Rickon has yet to reach Arya’s level, but he’s much younger than she was when she first manifested, so I expect he’ll be very powerful.” Bran paused, before adding, “Arya can be frightening when she connects with Nymeria. I can only hope Rickon will learn to control Shaggydog better. That is why I have him practicing daily.”

Jon was taken aback by the look of dread in Bran’s eyes. “What is so frightening about this?”

“As I said, the connection in the case of a warg warrior is almost the opposite of that of a normal warg. The human is allowing the animal to take control of their body, partially if everything goes well. If not,” Bran grimaced. “Well, I’ve seen Arya lose control once, and it’s not something I wish to ever see again. It took a lot out of me to reach into her, and to bring her back. She’s become better at controlling Nymeria since then, but there is always a risk. Especially with how temperamental both of them can be.”

“I don’t understand. If it’s so dangerous, why use this ability at all?” Jon asked.

“When in battle, the physical strength, the senses, and instincts of the wolf are transferred to the warrior. I’m talking about a person becoming so strong they can lift a horse and throw it at their enemies as easily as if they were throwing a few small rocks. A warg warrior wielding a sword or axe will be chopping off limbs, rather than simply cutting his enemies. And the sense to smell, hear, and see as a wolf during a battle can be a defining factor.”

Jon had to admit that such power would be incredible. If he could use such force and sense his enemies so easily no one would ever defeat him. “That sounds quite useful,” he admitted. “Can anyone become a warg warrior, or is it like being a greenseer?”

Bran smirked. “Tempting, right? It is as you say, only those who are born as warg warriors can use this ability. I haven’t really _read_ you yet, so I don’t know if you possess any other talent aside from skinchanging.”

“And how will you… _read_ me?” Jon asked with apprehension.

 _Like this_ , came the voice inside his head. And suddenly Jon was not in the godswood anymore, but in complete darkness. Little by little, he saw torches lighting up in a long hallway, and he realized he was surrounded by statues of men and direwolves. _These are the crypts where all of our ancestors are buried_ , the voice of his brother explained. On and on it went, until it stopped at the last three statues. A grave faced man, a younger man, and a beautiful young girl. _Our grandfather, uncle Brandon, and aunt Lyanna_.

And then, Jon was back in the godswood, blinking slowly and trying to figure out what had just happened. “Sorry,” Bran said with a smile. “It can be a bit disorienting at first. Sansa threw up all over me when I did this to her.”

“What was… that?” Jon asked.

“Well, everyone sees something different, but that was me unleashing your potential, so to speak. You will start having wolf dreams, which in reality, is just you reaching out to Ghost while sleeping. I trust that you and Arya will practice during your journeys,” Bran said.

Jon nodded. “What should we practice?”

“For you, I would say controlling Ghost should suffice. I didn’t sense anything like I did with Rickon and Arya,” his little brother replied. He gave Jon an apologetic grin. “No warg warrior for you.”

Jon laughed. “From what you’ve told me, I think it’s better this way. It might not seem so, but I can have quite the temper.”

  


It was later that day, a few hours before dinner that Jon made his way to the kitchens, where his siblings had told him to go for some tea and sweets. He found Rickon and Sansa, stuffing their faces with lemon cakes. Bran drank his tea calmly, and Robb and Greyjoy talked. Arya was talking with some servants in the corner, laughing, and munching on a piece of lemon cake.

Jon sat down across from Sansa and Rickon, and ignored the way the older of his sisters stiffened. “I’m told you like lemon cakes, Sansa,” he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. He would not allow himself to anticipate what the young woman was thinking or feeling.

“Yes, I do,” she replied after Rickon nudged her none too gently. She nudged back, though it barely affected their youngest brother. “Have you tried some?” she asked, gesturing to the plate on the table.

He felt relief wash over him. Casually, he took one piece and bit down on it as gracefully as he could. Jon tried not to gag on the sweetness. Definitely needed more lemons. But with the way the Starks were devouring the things, the cooks probably rationed the fruit. Jon had never been fond of sweets, preferring the savory meats his foster families would send to him whenever they feasted. “It’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sansa nodded almost mechanically, and he felt the urge to laugh, but he held back. She would likely take it as mocking. Truth be told, Jon wasn’t sure if she was trying to be friendly or distant, southron cordiality was something he never understood. “My mother says we are running out of lemons, so we have to ration. When do we get the next shipment of lemons, Robb?” she turned to their brother.

“Three months from now,” Robb said, almost with exasperation. It would seem this was not the first time she had asked him this. “They’ll get here, Sansa.”

She sighed. “I wish we could grow lemons here, but they won’t even take in the glass gardens.” Sansa looked at Jon. “I don’t suppose you can bring some from the Wall?”

Before he could respond, he heard Arya’s bark of laughter. He turned to see her approaching, hand stretched out to take the last piece of lemon cake. “Somehow I don’t think we could get away with stealing lemons from the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “I did not mean you’d have to _steal_ them,” she ground out as she reached out and snatched the last piece herself. “I’m not stupid, despite what you may think.”

Robb and Greyjoy paused their conversation to stare apprehensively. Rickon inched his way closer to Bran, and Jon felt his happiness deflate. So, these are the famous Stark sisters together, he thought.

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Sansa. I was merely making a joke.”

“A bad one,” Sansa said, not budging.

“We can certainly ask the Lord Commander if he can spare some lemons for you. Isn’t that right, Arya?” Jon said quickly, trying to diffuse the situation. He heard Greyjoy snicker. Arya snorted, and soon everyone save Jon and Sansa were laughing.

Sansa and Jon merely looked at each other in confusion. “What?” he asked her. His sister could only shrug, but he could see the corners of her mouth turning upwards, their siblings’ merriment was too contagious.

“I have long since stopped trying to understand them,” Sansa told him as the others calmed. “Your concern is appreciated, Jon Sn- _Jon_. But I shall have to endure until the lemons arrive from Dorne.”

“As you wish, sister,” he said with a smile. She opened her mouth to say something, looked at Arya who seemed to be staring intently at her, then closed it. Instead, she nodded. Arya grinned, and Sansa rolled her eyes in an odd display of unladylike behavior.

  


Jon did not get the chance to speak with Sansa alone until the second night at the castle. The following day, he and Arya would be leaving for the Wall, leading the caravan of provisions for the Night’s Watch. He made his way to the room his lord father had assigned for him – Jon supposed he had managed to convince Lady Stark of letting him stay for at least two nights – in the guest wing.

As he turned around the corner, he nearly ran into his sister. “Sorry,” he stammered out as he jumped back before they collided. “I was not paying attention.”

“It’s alright, I was going too fast,” Sansa said, looking down the hallway. “I need to ask a favor of you.” She hesitated.

That took Jon by surprise, but he caught himself before he missed the opportunity to connect with this terse sister of his. “You can ask me anything, Sansa,” he told her.

“I need you to give this to Arya once you’re far from Winterfell. Days or weeks away, preferably,” she said, handing him a small bundle wrapped in a soft fabric. “You can’t look at it. But maybe she’ll show it to you afterward.”

He nodded. “I shall do as you asked, sister. Is this for making amends?” The last thing he wanted was to hand Arya something that would set her off or hurt her.

Sansa nodded. “There is a letter in there. I… We’ve never been good at listening to each other, and she won’t come to me while she thinks I… hate her.”

“And you won’t tell her otherwise in person,” Jon surmised. His sister looked down at her clasped hands. “Don’t worry, I think this might be better. I’ll make sure she writes back when we get to Castle Black.”

Sansa looked up at him in surprise. “You will?” Then she frowned, as if confused. “Why are you helping us with this? You seem to get along better with her than even with Robb. Why are you not simply taking her side?”

He chuckled. “I think there are no sides here. You are the Starks of Winterfell. I might be a Snow, but Father…” It was his turn to hesitate, but his sister nodded in encouragement. “Father once told me in a letter that _when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies_ -”

“ _But the pack survives_ ,” Sansa finished with him, her face solemn.

“Aye,” Jon said. “I have been outside of Winterfell all my life, and I’ve always wanted to see my half-siblings. I don’t presume to tell you how to relate to each other, but it hurts me to see you all in so much pain. I hope you can forgive each other and move past this.”

His sister looked at him with a pensive expression. “You know, I was not expecting you to be so...”

“Preachy?” Jon offered with a grin.

Sansa laughed softly. “No. So much like our father. At least, the way he was before… before this mess began,” she finished with a sigh. “Thank you, Jon.”

For the second time that day, he was overwhelmed as the other sibling he had thought lost to him thanked him. “It’s no problem, Sansa. We’re siblings, and I’ll always be here to keep you all from tearing into each other.”

He laughed at her undignified exclamation of protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mind keeps throwing me ahead, to the middle of the story where the Arya/Dany bits and the action are. So this chapter was a lot less fun to write than Catelyn's.
> 
> Plus, my life just got a bit more busy, and I've been too tired to proofread this chapter this week.
> 
> Things are not exactly optimal at Winterfell, but I think everyone is trying really hard to make amends. Still, this was mostly forced due to the circumstances: Jon Snow is an outsider, though with enough relation to them that he can be allowed to interfere. And him and Arya are leaving for who knows how long, so everyone feels the pressure to just try to get along. And time has passed since the offenses, so some healing has been had.
> 
> The good news is that I also did even _more_ outlining for this story, and I've written a good chunk of Viserys' first chapter. We might not see it for another couple of chapters, though.
> 
> Next chapter should be Arya's. :D
> 
> I also edited out a few tags, not because they don't apply, but because they were going to be cluttering the whole thing. If I tag everyone who interacts, it'll be impossible to read the story. :P


	4. ARYA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Jon leave Winterfell, some truths and plans are revealed, and they reach the Wall to learn something unexpected.

# ARYA I

Arya couldn’t believe the day had finally come. She was leaving Winterfell, and it would be for a long time. Perhaps years. She would be going with her brother, Jon Snow. While she already loved him with all her heart—as much as she loved her other siblings—he was a stranger to her. They got along very well, and didn’t have disagreements. But they had only been speaking for three days, within the comforts of Winterfell. Out there, on the road, with no one and nowhere else to turn to, it would be different.

She wondered what she would find when she got back. Would Father still be alive? Would Robb keep the North and his schemes in his stead? Would Lady Catelyn be glad to see her return? Would Sansa be happy with the man Father meant to wed her to? Would Bran have found his so-called mentor? Would Rickon turn into a joyful man, strong and wild as he was now as a boy?

And, Arya herself, would she be radically changed by this journey? Would she return triumphant? Would Father be proud that she fulfilled his promise to aunt Lyanna? Or, should she return defeated, would he love her still?

A light snow was falling on the morning they left. Father had wanted to give them a proper farewell so he had everyone see them off in the courtyard. Rickon looked especially annoyed, eyes half-closed and hair sticking in every direction. She laughed and ruffled his hair, and he glared at her. But when it was time to say goodbye, he choked up and threw his arms around her.

Arya had to bite down a sob of her own then. “Don’t worry, little wolf. We’ll see each other again,” she told him when he pulled away, abashed. “You keep training and getting strong, and we’ll see if you can finally kick my ass when I get back.” That earned her a reproach from Lady Catelyn, though Arya couldn’t care less, Rickon was laughing; it was worth it.

Her youngest brother had been her only true friend since he was born, and her staunchest supporter during this past year, when everyone else was quick to blame her for all their problems. When he had found out that she found women more attractive than men, Rickon had come to her for advice on how to woo Lyanna Mormont, a fierce young woman who had been visiting Winterfell a few months ago with her mother, the Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island.

Arya had inwardly winced at the request, for Lyanna was five years older than Rickon and clearly unimpressed with his admiration of her fighting prowess. Still, as an older sister, she saw it as her duty to help him. It would have gone well, but Lyanna Mormont seemed to think _she_ was trying to woo her, and not merely trying to figure out how to help Rickon do it. The youngest she-bear had nearly beaten her senseless and told her she was not interested in women. It was only after Rickon intervened that she had left them in a huff. Arya couldn’t tell whether she had been embarrassed, furious, or merely indifferent. Lyanna Mormont was always so severe that one could not tell one mood from another. For some odd reason, Rickon found that very charming.

Brother and sister laughed about it afterwards, but Rickon had been worried that by having Arya help him, it had made things worse for her. Tales reached Lady Catelyn’s ears of her supposed attempt at courting Lady Maege’s daughter, and things had been tense until the she-bears returned to their island. Thankfully, nothing had come from it.

She turned to Bran, who gave her an enigmatic smile. “I can’t wait to see your face when you come back,” he said.

Arya narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “That, I cannot say,” he told her. “Safe travels, sister.” She tried prodding him for more, but he shook his head, grinning and eyes shining with mirth. “Oh, no! Some things have to be lived.”

Bran had become unbearable since the Reed siblings had visited and Jojen had opened Bran’s third eye, whatever it meant. Rickon and Arya had made a few suggestions as to the meaning of that, which had irritated Bran, embarrassed Jojen, and amused Meera.

Still, when Arya’s ability as a warg warrior had surfaced, Bran had been the one to help her train and focus her rage so that she would not spiral out of control, along with Nymeria. It still shamed her that she had nearly turned on Sansa once, when their older sister had gone to find them at the godswood while Arya and Bran had been meditating.

Arya had already been frustrated, and Sansa’s own anger had felt like a challenge to her wolf mind. It had been Bran who told their sister to leave, and then reached into her mind to calm her. It had taken a lot out of both of them, and he couldn’t fully prevent Arya from attacking him, but Summer had helped him with Nymeria, and Bran himself was a good fighter.

With a huff and a mutter about pretentious little brothers, Arya turned to her other siblings. Robb stood between their sister, and his wife, Jeyne Stark. “Safe travels, good-sister,” Jeyne said. Arya nodded. They had been friends before her tumble with Jeyne Poole, but with the drunken rumors about her ‘collecting Jeynes’, and Robb’s jealousy, it had been decided that all they could be was cordial strangers. Arya thought it was stupid, but didn’t want to push the issue. The last thing she wanted was to create a rift between husband and wife, or to make her good-sister uncomfortable with her presence. “Thank you, Lady Jeyne.” She turned to her brother. “Robb, I’ll make sure to have plenty of fun for you.” She grinned as he sighed.

“Be safe, you insufferable wolf,” he gruffed, before giving her a half-hug that took her unawares. Arya patted his back in response, and they both pulled away quickly. She supposed her leaving Winterfell was a huge relief for him. He had been angry with her since Father had had Ice reforged into two swords for them both.

Arya could understand him—somewhat—but that did not mean she didn’t feel annoyed at the way he thought her unworthy of a sword for being a woman. As if having a cock gave him more rights than her. It almost made her want to fight him for the lordship. But she wouldn’t. They were a pack, no matter how much they infuriated each other.

She turned to Sansa, who looked stiff and composed, as a southron lady should. “Sister,” the older woman said. “I wish you a safe journey.”

Arya blinked, and did not know what to say. It was not the first time in these past few days that Sansa had been decent to her. The last thing Arya wanted was to keep fighting with her. Despite everything, she loved her sister, as annoying and unpleasant as she was sometimes. She knew, deep down, Sansa felt the same. But two days of cordiality could not erase months of cruel words shouted at one another. “Alright. Thank you, Sansa,” she said, hoping her sister would not take offense for her scarce words, and then prepared herself to face Lady Catelyn.

Her mother had been trying to appear understanding, Arya knew. But it often frustrated her more than it helped. Lady Catelyn looked close to tears. “Write when you get to the Wall,” she said, her voice strained. “And be safe. You’ll always be welcome here. None of us will think any less of you if you turn back.”

There it is, Arya thought. Her hands tightened into fists, and Jon’s words sounded in her head: _We have a long journey ahead, we shouldn’t leave with angry words_. “Alright,” she said again. “Goodbye, Mother.”

Finally, Father was smiling down at her, looking so haggard and old that it broke her heart. He took her in his arms, and she let him. She hugged back, burying her face on his shoulder, trying to keep her eyes from watering. “You can do this, my fierce wolf,” he whispered. “Remember what I asked of you. Promise me, Arya.”

A knife twisted in her belly at the words. She pulled back, and looked at him solemnly. “I promise, Father,” she said.

With a nod, he let go of her and turned to Jon, who had just finished saying his goodbyes to his half-siblings. Cousins, Arya’s traitorous mind supplied as her father hugged his secret nephew. She watched them for a few moments, then turned to look at the direwolves. The animals knew they’d be separating, because they were all nipping and sniffing at each other, yipping and whining. Ghost was silent as ever, but still accepted the affection from his littermates.

  


The supply caravan made their journey slow. Arya had been assigned by Father as the leader, and as such she commanded fifty men, with seventy riding horses, six wagons packed with food, and two wagons packed with spare armor and weapons. It all was a patchwork of men and goods from different Houses across the North, as had been requested by Lord Eddard Stark, to help those at the Wall.

It would not be enough, Arya knew. But Father could not demand more without arousing suspicion. A small group of five Winterfell men would be following Arya and Jon after their business at the Wall was concluded. The rest would remain to aid the Night’s Watch in whichever way the Lord Commander deemed necessary.

Two days into their journey, Arya led Jon east into the open fields away from the caravan as they made their way north on the kingsroad. She and her brother would catch up once they were done with what Father had tasked her to do first.

Jon followed, as quiet as Ghost. Once she felt they were at a safe distance and there were no other people around, she slowed her horse into a comfortable pace. Her brother in all but blood did the same, curious but not asking. She wondered what he was thinking.

“Jon,” she began, feeling unprepared for what was to come. Arya had never been very good with words. “Father has told me several things this past year, and I must share this knowledge with you. However, most of it is… treasonous. And some of it can be difficult to accept. I will tell you all, but I will need your word that you will let me finish, that you won’t run away, and that you won’t tell anyone else of this unless I tell you it’s safe to do so.”

Jon Snow regarded her with trepidation. “I vow to listen to all you have to say,” he said after a moment. “Does this have anything to do with Jojen Reed’s dream of the wolves and the dragons?”

Arya nodded. “Aye. But it’s more than that. This goes back to a time before we were born; before the rebellion.” She took a deep breath. “In the year of the false spring there was a tourney at Harrenhal, did you know?”

He nodded. “I’ve heard several tales about it. The more common one is of Prince Rhaegar crowning aunt Lyanna as his queen of love and beauty. The other tale, I was told when I was little, and I don’t remember much of it. Lord Howland told me of a crannogman and a mystery knight, the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

With a sigh of relief, Arya nodded. “So you were told about that, it will make things easier. Did Lord Howland tell you who was the knight?”

Jon shook his head. “No, but surely it was him. Meera and I debated it, as much as two little children can debate anything, and it was the most logical conclusion.” Arya smirked. “You don’t think so?”

“Father told me who the mystery knight was. It was aunt Lyanna,” she said.

Jon blinked. “That’s…” He laughed then. “Something tells me you would have been her favorite niece.”

Arya gave him a sad smile. “Maybe. But that’s not all,” she continued, growing serious. “The Mad King had gone to the tourney as well, convinced that there was a plot against him.”

“He was known to be very paranoid,” Jon said with a sage nod. “This was a few years after the Defiance of Duskendale.”

“Indeed. Though, according to Father, there _was_ a plot to remove Aerys from the throne. It was Prince Rhaegar who funded the tourney, in secret. However, when the Mad King saw the mystery knight, he was certain that _he_ was part of the conspiracy.” Jon grimaced. “So he sent Prince Rhaegar to uncover the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“But all he found was his shield,” Jon said. “I remember now.”

“That’s what Prince Rhaegar claimed to the Mad King,” Arya said with a sigh. “But he found aunt Lyanna before she could get rid of all her gear.” Jon’s eyes widened. “After she explained why she had participated in the tourney, Prince Rhaegar realized his father would not accept it as the truth. He was far too paranoid to see reason, and he already distrusted his own son.”

“So he said the mystery knight disappeared… And then he crowned aunt Lyanna as the queen of love and beauty in recognition for what she did,” Jon murmured. “That was stupid,” he concluded.

Arya laughed. “I said the same thing when Father told me.”

“I don’t understand, though. Why is this not known?”

“You’ll see,” Arya said, her mirth vanishing again. “After the tourney, Father went back to the Vale with Robert Baratheon. Uncle Brandon went to Riverrun, to see my mother, as they would be wed soon. And uncle Benjen returned to Winterfell, so that our grandfather Rickard could go south to Riverrun. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, as Father likes to say.”

“What of aunt Lyanna? Where did she go?”

“She remained at Harrenhal for some months, as companion to Lord Whent’s daughter. She was on her way to Riverrun when she crossed paths with Prince Rhaegar and his companions, who were back from Dragonstone by then.” Arya rubbed at her face with her left hand, a habit she had formed as a child, and both Lady Catelyn and Sansa hated. “That’s when they went off together.”

Jon turned to her, incredulous. “You’re saying aunt Lyanna went with him willingly?”

“That’s what Father has told me, and the evidence points to it,” Arya said. “Shortly after, uncle Brandon was meant to go meet with our grandfather on the road, as he was making his way south. However, he was informed of aunt Lyanna’s supposed abduction, and he decided to go directly to King’s Landing.”

“That’s when the Mad King arrested him and his companions, and then called for their fathers,” Jon continued, clearly knowing the story. “He had them all killed.”

“All but his squire, Ethan Glover,” Arya nodded. “Prince Rhaegar didn’t take aunt Lyanna to King’s Landing but to Dorne. There they remained for months, until he was recalled by his father, and he led the loyalist army to the Trident.” She swallowed. The more difficult part of the tale was coming, and she was not sure how Jon Snow would take it. “After the battle, Robert Baratheon was injured, so he bid Father to take King’s Landing.”

“Instead, he found the Lannisters there,” Jon added, seemingly becoming impatient. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Arya glared. “It’s important that we know all the facts, otherwise what I have to tell you will make no sense to you,” she ground out. Her brother glared back at her, but nodded. With a snort, she continued. “Anyway, after the Lannisters sacked King’s Landing, the Kingslayer committed his sin, and the city was taken, Father arrived with his army. Robert arrived some time later, and Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, both wrapped in Lannister crimson to hide the blood.”

Jon frowned. “They were only children.”

Arya nodded. “Rhaenys was no older than three, and Aegon was barely a year old. She was stabbed to death, and his head was smashed against a wall. Their mother was raped to death.” She sighed. “Father was furious, but Robert Baratheon did not care, he thanked Tywin Lannister and called the babes _dragonspawn_. Father told me he almost came to blows with the new King.” Jon seemed surprised. “He left in a fury, to lift the siege at Storm’s End, and to find aunt Lyanna. Which he did.”

“She was ill when he found her, that much I’ve heard,” Jon said.

It took Arya some time to find the words. “Not truly,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. Jon had to rein his horse closer to hers. “Aunt Lyanna was not ill, she was dying of childbirth.”

“What?” Jon nearly exclaimed. “But… No one has ever mentioned another Targaryen babe.”

Arya stopped her horse, and turned to look at him as he did the same. “Well, aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar were not able to wed due to the war, according to what Father managed to learn over the years. There was a babe, a natural son by them, with no true claim to the throne. However, if Robert Baratheon learned of him, he would be killed all the same, just as his half-siblings had been butchered at King’s Landing. The child was proof that aunt Lyanna did not want him for a husband.”

Jon frowned. “So, where is this child?”

For a moment, all Arya could do was stare at him. “Jon,” she said, and she could see the moment the realization dawned on his face.

“No… Please, don’t say it,” he whispered, a look of panic settling in on his face.

Arya felt her heart break. “You are the child. Aunt Lyanna lived long enough to beg Father to keep you safe. The son she and Rhaegar had conceived out of love,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat as Jon blinked back tears, though she didn’t know if he was listening to her anymore. “And because he could not overpower Robert, Father did something treasonous; dishonorable some would say. He took in his nephew and named him his bastard.”

Jon was breathing hard by the time she was done. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “This… This means…” He clearly could not say it, instead he suddenly glared at her. “You called me _brother_ , and you knew it was not true,” he said, almost growling. “And Father… No,” he laughed, a bitter sharp laugh. “ _Uncle_.  He did not deign to tell me this himself.”

She nodded. “I agree that he should have told you this himself,” she said. “I think he’s scared that you will hate him for keeping the truth from you for so long.” Arya could tell he was becoming angrier by the minute. With a sigh, she dismounted. “Come, let’s fight this out,” she said. “I can tell you more, but you don’t seem to be in the mood to listen.”

Jon glared down at her from his horse, but then sighed and dismounted as well. “I won’t hold back,” he muttered.

“Good, I’m not holding back either,” Arya said with a bitter smirk.

They set stakes and tied their horses, since there were no trees around, and walked away from the animals as to not spook them with their fight. Jon was grim as he unsheathed his sword. “I should head back to Winterfell and do this with… him.”

Arya shook her head. “Father wants us to end the task at the Wall quickly, we have other places to be,” she said.

“Right. The two dragons,” Jon scowled, thinking for a moment. “What are they to me? Uncle and aunt?”

Arya nodded. “They’re your father’s younger siblings.”

It was the wrong thing to say, because Jon lunged at her, sword raised. “He’s _not_ my father!”

Arya blocked easily, and sidestepped as he tried another cut. Well, it was always said she lacked tact, and this was proof enough.

The fight was dangerous, not like her usual sparring matches with Theon, Robb, Bran, or Rickon. These were not tourney swords, but their actual weapons. Her Fire and Jon’s common steel sword. While she knew he would not want her dead, any misstep from either of them could mean a nasty injury. Additionally, they were only wearing their traveling clothes, light leathers and furs.

They tired quickly, as they had to spend more energy in avoiding the blades. Arya blocked and deflected, while Jon charged and slashed.

It was a few hours later, with a hare Ghost and Nymeria had helped them catch, that they sat around a camp fire watching the meat cook. Jon had his legs bent close to his chest, arms over his knees. Arya sat cross-legged across from him, poking at the fire impatiently.

“Who else knows?” Jon asked quietly.

Arya stopped bothering the fire. “Howland Reed was there when Father found aunt Lyanna,” she said. “There was a wet nurse named Wylla, but she returned to the Daynes, at Starfall. Not even my mother knows,” the last part she couldn’t help but say bitterly.

Jon looked at her for a moment. “Dayne? Any relation to Ashara Dayne?” Then he shook his head. “I suppose it makes no matter anymore.”

“You heard rumors that she was your mother, I bet,” Arya said, and Jon nodded. “They said the same things at Winterfell, until Father put a stop to them. She _did_ have a Stark child, but our cousin was stillborn. She would have been uncle Brandon’s daughter.”

Jon made a face. “He was betrothed to your mother.”

She shrugged. “I guess he wanted to enjoy his freedom before he got married. This was during the tourney at Harrenhal. No one would question a man for that.” At that, she rolled her eyes. “But Lady Ashara was dismissed from court shortly after when it was discovered that she was with child. It spared her the sacking, but after the war she killed herself.”

“Bloody hell, that tourney was cursed,” Jon muttered.

“You could view it that way, but… you’re here now,” Arya said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “And what good it does me, _cousin_?”

She made a rude gesture at him that made him sputter indignantly. “You better call me _sister_ , stupid, or I’ll bugger you with this stick.” She raised said stick, which she was using to stir the flames. “I grew up thinking of you as my brother, and that will not change now. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, _brother_.”

Jon swallowed and looked down at the flames, brow creased. He clearly had not expected his own words to be thrown back at him.

Arya allowed the silence to engulf them, and turned the hare so it’d cook from the other side. She smirked to herself as she thought: A feast fit for a king.

But that would have to wait for another day.

  


The next day they set out again, now heading north to eventually meet again with the caravan, which would be trudging up the kingsroad. It would take them days, since they were bordering the Long Lake. Jon had been silent all morning, but when they stopped to eat a meager meal of hard cheese and bread, he finally spoke. “We are not just going to the Wall.”

Arya chewed for a moment, before she answered, “No. The supplies and our presence at the Wall are merely an excuse. We shall visit Eastwatch by the Sea, then sail to White Harbor, then to Braavos. There, we shall meet Father’s informer.”

Jon frowned. “Who is this informer?”

Arya shrugged. “Some Braavosi who wants coin and lands. His name is Harro Taceris. A year ago, he stumbled upon a plot to overthrow King Robert. He barely got out alive, and now he wishes to put the narrow sea between himself and the schemers.” She tore another piece of bread, chewed, then swallowed. “We must make sure that what he has reported is true before we do anything.”

“And what has he reported? Something to do with my uncle and aunt?”

“No,” Arya said. “It’s something that makes no sense. A Blackfyre pretender posing as your dead half-brother, Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “What? How is that even possible?”

“Taceris says there is someone in King’s Landing who is actively working with this pretender, keeping the tale from reaching the ears of the King and his Hand,” she said.

“But, surely the Spider would have...” Jon began, then at Arya’s raised eyebrow he seemed to realize. “It’s him.”

“Aye.” She brushed the crumbs from her clothes, and put away the cheese and bread. “It gets worse. According to Taceris, the schemers had attempted to involve Viserys and Daenerys into their plans. They had your aunt marry a Dothraki horselord, which would have provided them with nearly fifty thousand mounted warriors. However, someone interfered, and the pair was taken from the Dothraki. They have been in hiding from both Robert and these people for the past seven years.”

Jon put away his own rations, and they began preparing to ride again. “So, they were saved. How are we going to find them?”

Arya grimaced. “We don’t have to. They are in Norvos, living with the wife of Prince Doran Martell,” she said. “He has his own plans for them. Viserys on the Iron Throne, and wed to Princess Arianne Martell.”

Jon groaned. “And how do we know that?” he asked, though by his tone it seemed he had figured out the answer.

They mounted their horses and set out to the north. Their direwolves loping ahead of them.

“Because Father and Prince Doran have made an agreement, and sealed it with a marriage pact between my sister and Prince Trystane.” She smirked at Jon’s astonished expression. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she’ll be a princess, as she always wanted.”

“Is he out of his mind?” her brother asked her, concern etching on his face. Arya wasn’t sure if he meant Doran or their father.

Arya shrugged. “Mayhaps. He has become rather dour lately. I think the idea of plotting is not to his tastes, but he feels obligated to do it.”

“What is he trying to achieve?”

She inhaled and looked to the sky for a moment, trying to figure what she could tell him. “There are plans and counter-plans in motion. Father has his own goals, which he told me to reach. One of which is Viserys as the new king, as long as he legitimizes you and places you on Dragonstone.” She held up a hand when she saw his face twist into a stubborn expression, though she doubted it was for not being considered for kingship. She barely knew Jon Snow, but what she knew of him already told her he was far from ambitious. “You are the next choice,” she told him honestly. “The ideal choice, in my opinion. The last tales Father heard of Viserys were of his temper and how he was his father’s son.

“However, Prince Doran vows that actions have been taken to ensure your uncle is a pleasant, decent king,” Arya finished with a shrug. Jon seemed dismayed by the entire thing. “Either way, we cannot tell anyone of your parentage until we see for ourselves whether this Harro Taceris is being honest, and if Viserys and Daenerys are worth supporting.”

“I don’t like this,” Jon told her with a frown. “This is… deceitful. I’ve heard all my life that Father and King Robert were good friends, as close as brothers. They led the rebellion together.”

She nodded. “Aye, but Father only joined the war because of what King Aerys did to our grandfather and our uncle Brandon. The tale that the rebellion was about aunt Lyanna is a lie. Some fanciful song to make Robert look good.”

Jon was quiet for a while, and Arya felt bad for him. She could only imagine how it felt to know that one of his grandfathers killed the other. “Still, why would he go against Robert now?”

“Because he promised your mother. She wanted you to be recognized as Rhaegar’s son, as the true heir to the throne,” she said simply, and her heart tugged as he gasped and looked away. Did he think his mother didn’t love him? Part of Arya felt anger at her father, for keeping the truth from him for so long. Clearly, it had affected Jon’s opinion of himself more than he would admit. “She also wanted Father to help you avenge your father and siblings.”

“The family she helped tear apart by running off with him,” Jon said, his voice hard. “She had no right to ask Fath- uncle…” He let out a frustrated growl.

“Eddard Stark is still your father, if you want that,” Arya told him quietly. “Just as I am still your sister.” Jon sighed and nodded, but he was still unsure, she could tell. “As for your mother, you should not judge her harshly. She was young and foolish, and she did not want to wed Robert Baratheon, but she loved you.”

“Why did she spurn Robert?”

“Well, he sired his first daughter when he was seven-and-ten,” Arya said, rolling her eyes. “And even today he doesn’t seem to keep to one woman. Father says he has children all over the Seven Kingdoms.” After a pause, she laughed. “You know, growing up, Father and others would tell me I reminded them of aunt Lyanna,” she made a face as Jon studied her intently, probably trying to see his mother in her. She doubted she resembled her aunt as much as people claimed. Her chin was slightly wide for a woman, and her jawline was sharp. She didn’t think of herself as an ugly person, but she knew she was not the type of woman men found attractive. That was not a charge anyone could lay at the door of Lyanna Stark. “But the more I’ve learned of her, the more I think it’s Sansa who is a lot like her. Sure, she was a woman who liked to fight, and I find that admirable, but she was still comfortable with herself.” She stopped speaking then, not wanting to spill her own feelings on the matter. Thankfully, Jon did not prod. “Sansa might try to mislead us all now that she’s older, but she’s still fond of singers and stories of chivalry. All she’s ever wanted was to marry some handsome fool and have babies, and wear silks and frolic in a field of flowers.” She felt like throwing up just for saying it.

“You’re saying she’s idealistic,” Jon surmised, lips curled up, trying but failing to stifle a smile.

Arya nodded, rolling her eyes. “Yes, and so was your mother.”

Her brother-cousin flinched at that. “How exactly did she go from not wanting a man who wouldn’t be true to her, to wanting a man who was already married?” Jon asked.

She shrugged. “As to that, Father told me something interesting. One of the reasons the rumors about Ashara Dayne being your mother exist is that Father had to fight Ser Arthur Dayne. Between Father and Howland Reed, they were able to defeat him. Afterwards, Father took the ancestral sword Dawn to Starfall, the seat of House Dayne. By then, he had you with him, so Lady Ashara knew what had happened. She told Father that Princess Elia had nearly died birthing Prince Aegon, and Prince Rhaegar was adamant that he wanted a third child, for some reason. So after he crowned aunt Lyanna at the tourney, Princess Elia gave him her blessing to pursue her.”

Jon seemed sceptic. “She let him humiliate her?”

Arya screwed up her face. She didn’t quite understand the events herself. “No. The plan was for them to marry. In essence, Prince Rhaegar would have had two wives, so you would have been a Prince and next in line after Aegon.”

Her brother clearly found the whole idea more than a little queer. “But isn’t that against the law?”

“It’s not allowed by the Faith of the Seven, and Father believes it would have meant war all the same. Though it might have been less bloody than the rebellion.” Arya shook her head. “In any case, none of that matters anymore.” She winced after saying that. Must I always be so blunt? She glanced at her brother-cousin, but he didn’t seem to be paying her any mind. He was probably brooding some more.

  


They met with the caravan two days later, but it wouldn’t be for another two weeks and a half that they would arrive at Castle Black. It was a surprise to see that the Lord Commander was none other than their uncle, Benjen Stark. He greeted them warmly, but his face was grave.

Arya blinked in confusion when she pulled away from his hug. “Uncle, I thought the Lord Commander was a Mormont?”

Benjen Stark nodded. “He was, until three days ago. But...” he trailed off, looking troubled. “A month ago, I sent a small party of five men to track down a pack of wildling raiders. All of them disappeared. Then, three days ago, we found the corpse of one of them at the edge of the Haunted Forest. We had to carry it ourselves, for none of the horses would let us tie it to them. Our maester noted that the man’s eyes were bright blue, when in life they had been steely gray.” Benjen swallowed. “That same night, the corpse rose, killed the Lord Commander’s guard, and then killed Jeor Mormont himself.

“The dogs went mad that night, thus many men woke up, and when they saw the dead guard at the Lord Commander’s door, they burst into his solar. That’s when they saw the _thing_ walking towards them. It took five men to kill… well, _destroy_ it. The maester threw a lamp and rags at it, and it burned.”

Neither Arya nor Jon knew what to say to that. They knew that even if Benjen Stark had always been a jovial man, he wouldn’t lie about something of this magnitude.

Benjen smirked bitterly at them. “I’m afraid we will need more help than a few wagons of salted pork and old swords. Winter is coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! This chapter didn't seem to want to end. Longest yet. Some info-dump, but necessary.
> 
> We got Rebellion stuff, we got preliminary plans and the whereabouts of Viserys and Daenerys, as well as the existence of fake Aegon. We'll see Viserys (and Dany) soon. It was going to be in chapter 6, but even rushing next chapter, it's possible that it will have to be pushed one or two more chapters. So 7 or 8.
> 
> Slightly unrelated to this fanfic, I wanted to point out that _Fire & Blood Volume 1_ came out. I've got it, and there are very interesting additions to the lore. Fair warning, it's very likely that some of these things will show up in my story eventually, but not for a while. At least not before chapter 10.
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank everyone who has been reading, reviewing, bookmarking, kudoing, and otherwise absorbing my story. I know we're all looking forward to Arya and Dany meeting, and I wish I could rush straight (?) to that and forget about setting up the fanfic. Now I understand those who make a little list in an author's note and jump straight into the fun stuff. :P


	5. STANNIS I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small council discusses the happenings in the North, and Stannis and Jon Arryn plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAACK! Apologies for taking so long. "Excuses" in the end notes. :P
> 
> We're still in the year 307 AC, from book canon timeline.

# STANNIS I

Stannis Baratheon had never been fond of sitting in the small council, but he did his duty as best as he could. His royal brother did not even bother attending most meetings, but Renly would be there, and that was torture enough.

The only person with whom Stannis felt some form of camaraderie was Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. They seemed to be in the minority during most rulings, and the old man had come to rely on him more and more with each passing year as he aged and weakened. Especially with matters best kept hidden from Robert and the Lannisters.

All in all, it seemed to be his destiny to remain in King’s Landing, and serve Robert. One day he would be Hand of the King, and if Robert continued to be absent from every meeting, much of the decisions would be his to make.

To be sure, he would eventually have to deal with his… _nephew_. Joffrey had been a little shit when he was a child, and had turned into an enormous shit as a man. But he was currently distracted with the reconstruction of Summerhall, as a gift for Prince Tommen. Likely , Cersei had come up with the idea to keep him away from his siblings. Myrcella and Tommen were complete opposites to their older brother.

Stannis himself was the Master of Ships, while Renly was made Master of Laws. In reality, both dealt with matters of the city’s upkeep rather than the realm itself. Even Jon Arryn had more to do within the city than with all seven kingdoms.

Grand Maester Pycelle, ancient and useless as he was, had a position meant to impart wisdom and education in matters of history and health to the king and his council; but mostly, he was a Lannister puppet.

The Master of Whisperers was Lord Varys, the eunuch who had served under King Aerys II before Robert. He had ways of knowing things that defied explanation. There was something dark about that creature, it made Stannis grind his teeth all the harder. And his loyalties were too mysterious to trust.

The current Master of Coin was Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf son of Lord Tywin Lannister, and supposed heir to Casterly Rock, not that he would ever get the chance. Stannis could not stand the man, as he lacked self-discipline and sincerity, but he could understand the unfairness of being passed over for a younger brother.

At least you were given Dragonstone, a small voice said in his head, which sounded oddly like Ser Davos Seaworth. He ground his teeth. That was not the point.

In truth, the dwarf was the most effective Master of Coin they had in decades of fools parading through the position. He relied on his cunning more than on his father’s gold, and was not shy of making arrangements that did not readily favor his family’s interests. Stannis could have admired that if the reason had been of duty to the realm, but the dwarf made no secrets about his mutual dislike for his father.

Recently, the dwarf had been making use of Ser Davos’ low birth and knowledge of sailors to try to uncover some financial leak by one of his predecessors. So far, whoever had been involved in it had covered their tracks quite well.

The final member of the small council was Ser Barristan Selmy, the old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aged and tired he might be, but Stannis knew the man to be honorable and unambitious. Unfortunately, sometimes that made him as clueless as Jon Arryn.

It was an unpleasant surprise when Stannis entered the council chambers and saw Robert, a flagon of wine at his elbow. He found himself grinding his teeth in anticipation, he just knew Robert wanted a new tourney.

But it was not about a tourney, in the end. Robert had decided to grace them with his presence due to a matter brought up by Varys. Stannis read the note handed to him as soon as he sat down, then looked around at his fellow council members.

Tyrion Lannister was sipping at his own wine, seemingly not caring that the king’s presence was unusual. Pycelle was dozing. Renly was shifting in his seat. Selmy was as grave-faced as Jon Arryn.

Suppressing a sigh, Stannis spoke up. “What is the source of this?” he asked the eunuch.

“My little birds in the north,” the Master of Whisperers answered, as if it was obvious. “They have been telling me much and more. It would seem Lord Stark has been rather busy.”

That was one way of saying it. Robert was frowning, which was not an expression he wore whenever Eddard Stark came up in a conversation. “Has Lord Stark sent word of this? Is there any explanation?”

Jon Arryn cleared his throat. “Ned, that is...” he glanced regretfully at them. “Lord Stark wrote me a few months ago telling me that the Night’s Watch was down to a few hundred men, nowhere near enough to keep the wildlings at bay. And that it was likely he would have to reinforce the North with several measures.”

“That would explain the beacons,” Robert grumbled before taking a large swallow of wine from his cup.

“Lord Varys says there are four _beyond_ the Wall,” Pycelle spoke up, suddenly awake. “If the Night’s Watch is so thin, how would they be manning those four beacons? Wouldn’t they be overwhelmed by the wildlings?”

Jon Arryn grimaced. “Yes, that would be a problem.” To the eunuch, he said, “Have your informants heard more on this regard?”

Lord Varys wrung his hands. “Alas, no, my lord Hand.  Only that a series of beacons have begun to be constructed all across the North,  including the ones beyond the Wall, at the request of Lord Stark. It has been kept a secret for many moons, I was told.  The construction only began after a visit to the Wall from two of his children, the younger daughter and his bastard.  This coincided with Lord Commander Mormont’s death, and the designation of Benjen Stark as his replacement. ”

Renly shrugged. “Well, I believe it’s a simple matter of writing Lord Stark and demanding clarification.”

Pycelle nodded. “Especially since he has sent another son to Moat Cailin,” he added.

Stannis frowned in confusion. “That was not in the note.”

The old man nodded, eyes half closed. “Indeed, my lord. I have my own informants in the riverlands, and they tell me the second son of Lord Stark has come down to the Neck.” He paused. “These movements seem strange, don’t you think, my lords, Your Grace?” Pycelle asked, stroking his beard.

Robert sighed before drinking more wine. “Ned is probably preparing for winter. Didn’t we receive word from the Citadel last month that summer is at an end?”

Pycelle nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace,” he admitted, somewhat grudgingly. “And winters are harder in the North. Still...”

Lannister rolled his eyes. “You seem to be very suspicious of Lord Stark, Grand Maester,” he noted. “Yet my father has made similar arrangements for my cousins over the years, and not a word of complaint from you.”

Renly chuckled as the old maester glared at the dwarf. “True. Every House looks after their own. Lord Stark is only ensuring that his family is well taken care of. A second son with a seat is not unheard of. Joff is preparing Summerhall for Tommen, after all.”

“There are other tidings regarding the North,” Lord Varys said. “A betrothal between Sansa Stark and Prince Trystane Martell has been announced.”

Renly’s smile faded, and everyone in the council stilled. Robert frowned. “Starks and Martells?” he asked. Stannis had to agree, it was much too queer. After the rebellion, relations with the Martells had been strained, at best. More so with the Starks, who had sparked the war in more ways than one.

Jon Arryn was quick to speak up. “An excellent alliance. We must be honest, my lords, Your Grace,” he said with an apologetic glance at the king. “We have not handled the matter of Princess Elia very well. Prince Oberyn still sends us annual letters requesting the heads of those responsible for her death.”

Lannister sipped at his wine, his mismatched eyes crinkling with amusement. No doubt he knew that his father’s was the head the Martells requested. And no doubt he would have gladly handed it to them.

The Hand continued. “Lord Stark can be the bridge that unifies the North and Dorne. After everything that happened...”

Robert cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that is good.” He waved a hand. Discussing the rebellion was never something he enjoyed while sober. “No doubt Ned knows what he’s doing. What other matters are there to discuss? I thought you said you had word of the Targaryens?” he demanded, looking at Varys.

Lord Varys shuffled some papers in front of him, nodding. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He looked at the king. “They have been found. All these years, they had been hiding in Norvos under the protection of Lady Mellario who, as you know, is Prince Doran’s estranged wife.”

Robert’s face was stone. “I see,” he said, his voice low.

The eunuch grimaced. “And the daughter and bastard of Lord Stark have taken ship to Braavos.”

Stannis felt a chill run down his spine. He couldn’t be implying… One glance at Robert, and he knew his brother had come to the same conclusion. “Impossible. Ned wouldn’t...”

Pycelle’s eyes had widened. “Your Grace, it is imperative that Lord Stark is called to answer for his treason!” he declared.

Robert slammed a fist on the table, his face red. “Treason?” he roared. “What makes you think Ned would act against me? He is like a brother to me!”

Renly glanced at Stannis with a raised eyebrow, and he suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. “Your Grace,” he interrupted his brother’s tirade. “A request for an explanation will provide us with more information. As it is, we have no way of knowing what these actions mean.”

Pycelle had been cowering at the king’s reaction, but now he shook his head vehemently. “My lords, Your Grace, I have to insist. These actions speak very clearly!” He raised his fingers to count. “Sending his daughter and bastard to the Wall, then to Braavos. Need I remind you all that Norvos is not far from that city? Sending his second son to Moat Cailin, a strategic point of defense in all wars between North and South. An alliance with House Martell, who now we know has been hiding _Targaryens_!” he seemed almost frantic as he looked at the king.

“Or,” Lannister interrupted. “Mayhaps the one man who hates Targaryens as much as our good king has learned of this supposed involvement with the Martells and has sent his children to handle the situation. A betrothal between the Houses would ensure that the Martells remain loyal to King Robert.”

Robert’s frown softened at the dwarf’s words, and he began nodding. “Yes, yes, that is very good thinking, Tyrion,” he said. “Ned would do something like that.”

Stannis was not convinced. “Would he?” he asked the king. “Would he send his children to do his dirty work? He might not like House Targaryen, but I heard about the argument you had with him. Your Grace,” he added as an afterthought.

Robert shook his head. “That… That was a long time ago. And these Targaryens are adults,” he said. He poured himself another cup of wine, as if it would hide his shame. “I believe Lord Tyrion has the right of it.”

Stannis could tell that Jon Arryn was visibly relieved. No doubt he had feared a war breaking out between his two foster sons. The old man would often tell him about Robert and Eddard’s time at the Eyrie. More often than not, Robert would drag Stark along for some mischief, and the quiet youth would have to fix whatever his brother wrecked.

It seemed that was what they all did, all the time. Stannis thought of all his bastard nephews and nieces. Gendry was at the Wall now, under the care of old Donal Noye. Mya Stone was at the Vale, with a family of her own, in service to the late Lysa Arryn’s own bastard.

Varys had once told Stannis of a set of twins at the Rock, but they had been slain soon after they were born. Edric Storm was at Storm’s End. Another older daughter had appeared one day, from Stony Sept, a Bella. She had been given a place at Davos’ own keep, as a servant for his lady wife. And then there was little Barra, who Stannis had Davos smuggle out of King’s Landing along with her mother shortly after her birth. They too had been added to Davos’ small household.

While most of the bastards didn’t even have bastard names, as they were of too low birth or Robert had not seen fit to acknowledge them, the murder of the twins had concerned Jon Arryn. They had no proof that it had been at the Queen’s command, but Robert’s inaction had made them arrange better placements for his natural children.

It was around that time that Davos had come to Stannis with a piece of information, given to him by a cloaked man in the docks of King’s Landing. It had seemed ridiculous at first. But the more he thought about it, and the more he investigated, the more inevitable it became. Why else would the Queen bother killing off Robert’s bastards?

He finally decided to confide in Lord Arryn. It took some time to convince the old man, but after seeing all of Robert’s bastards, the truth was there for all to see.

Jon Arryn wanted to bring the matter to Robert in a council meeting. Stannis was not sure if it was such a good idea. The possibility that his brother would take it as an attempt to place himself in the line of succession nagged at him. “But Robert can still have children. And there is Edric Storm to consider. Out of all his bastards, his claim is better due to his noble mother,” the old man had said, as if it were that easy.

The Lannisters would not sit back and accept whatever punishment Robert dealt them. And he would punish them. Stannis was not sure if his brother would stop at Cersei and Jaime. Would he kill their bastards as well? If the matter of Rhaegar’s children was any indication, Stannis knew the answer. Joffrey was one thing, his death wouldn’t make anyone lose any sleep. But as abominable as they were, Tommen and Myrcella were no threats.

Years ago, it would not have mattered to him whether they lived or died, but having Shireen at court, interacting with her so-called cousins, had forced him to interact with Cersei’s brood more than he’d have liked.

After the birth of Steffon, six years ago, Selyse had sent him a raven, demanding that he take Shireen to King’s Landing, lest she infect her brother. No longer his heir, his wife had no reason to pretend to care for her.

It was a pity, because he knew his daughter needed friends and a loving family. She was soft spoken and timid, but very intelligent. It had been his daughter who taught Ser Davos his letters, and in turn, the former smuggler taught her how to cloak herself in shadows. Their friendship was somewhat strange to Stannis, not proper at all some would say. But it had sparked life in his daughter’s eyes, and for that he would continue to allow it.

Stannis knew his own limitations, and knew he could never be the father she wanted him to be. But he would try to give her the tools to make her own path, whatever it was.

Steffon was another matter. Selyse was not a bad person, but something about her had broken during the years of their marriage. Whether it was his own inability to be a good husband, their daughter’s illness, the lack of sons—until Steffon—, or being stuck in Dragonstone instead of living in Storm’s End… He left instructions for his son to be educated by Maester Pylos, and be trained by Dragonstone’s master at arms. And to keep a close watch on Selyse while she was with their son.

No, the Lannisters would fight back. And fight dirty.

Robert was downing another cup of wine. “I say we help Ned with this. Let’s send someone to meet with his children in Braavos,” he said as he put the empty cup down. “Wasn’t there an informant before? An exile?”

Lord Varys nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace. Ser Jorah Mormont. He sustained some wounds when the Targaryens escaped from the Dothraki, but he managed to escape to Pentos. He has been looking forward to remedy his failure.”

The king grunted. “Very well. Send word to him.”

Stannis shook his head. “Is that wise? Jorah Mormont is in exile because he sold poachers to slavers. Lord Stark himself would have beheaded him, had the man not run away.”

Robert raised his eyes towards the ceiling with a sigh. “Yes, and now he will redeem himself by aiding Ned’s children.”

Clenching his jaw shut, Stannis kept silent. There was no reasoning with Robert when it came to Eddard Stark. And he did not want to fight his brother before telling him about the Lannister bastards.

The rest of the meeting was as pointless as ever. Varys mentioned the matter of succession in the Iron Islands now that Lord Balon was gravely ill. Theon Greyjoy, his only surviving son, was still a hostage in Winterfell. But with the nature of the ironborn, it was unlikely that the man would be accepted as their lord if he was sent back. His older sister, Asha, seemed to have their father’s blessing to succeed him, yet that was another problem as the ironborn might not accept a woman to rule over them. Then, there were the uncles, with Euron being the next in line but having been exiled from the Iron Islands by Lord Balon more than eight years before. Would he return to make a claim? The man hadn’t been seen in years, so it could be Victarion Greyjoy. Aeron, the youngest of Balon’s living brothers, had been a priest for their queer god and seemed to have no interest in being a lord.

As always, Robert shrugged it off. “We will deal with that when it happens.”

Finally, Varys gave Jon Arryn a meek smile, before he brought up some trouble in the Vale. “It would seem that Ser Harrold Hardying is trying to rally people to his cause,” the eunuch told them. “Lady Alayne Tully has declared that anyone scheming with him is committing treason against Lord Jon and young Robert.”

Lord Arryn frowned. “That is good. But I will have to write Harrold myself. Perhaps it will give more weight to Alayne’s words.” He sighed. “Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll have to march there myself,” he said, looking at the king.

Robert seemed to come to life. “If it comes to that, Jon, I’ll march right beside you. You won’t be alone.” He took another gulp of wine.

  


When the meeting was over, Stannis made his way to the Tower of the Hand, as he usually did, to help Jon Arryn. On the way through the outer yard he met Ser Davos, standing dutifully in his faded wool clothes. “My lord,” the man greeted him with a bow.

“Ser Davos,” Stannis acknowledged him. “You are here for Lannister?”

“Aye, my lord,” the former smuggler replied, glancing around them. He leaned forward, and Stannis narrowed his eyes. “I might have found the person responsible for the leak,” he said in a low voice.

“Who? Why have you not brought them to answer for their crimes?”

Ser Davos grimaced. “Ah, that will not be possible.”

“Why not?” Stannis ground out.

“Because Lord Gyles Rosby has been dead for eight years.”

Stannis was incredulous. “Rosby? Why would he have stolen from the crown? The Rosby lands are rich.”

Davos shook his head. “I do not think he did it out of malice, my lord. The current Lord of Rosby was his ward at the time, and he found certain letters hidden away. These letters are purportedly from a banker in Braavos, who called upon an old debt that never existed, but it would be forgiven if the Iron Throne paid part of the crown’s obligation.”

Stannis was speechless. Had the old man been such a fool that he would have fallen for such tricks? He shook his head. “I don’t suppose we will ever see the gold again.”

“We will have to see if the Imp can trace the letters. The Iron Bank will most certainly want to find this _banker_ as well. While Lord Rosby was at fault, I can’t imagine the Braavosi will sit back and allow this crime to go unpunished,” the onion knight said.

Before Stannis could continue the conversation, he was interrupted by a cheerful voice. “Ah, Ser Davos! Just the man I was hoping to find,” the Imp said as he walked towards them. “Lord Stannis,” he added with a respectful nod.

Stannis inhaled deeply. “Lord Tyrion,” he said brusquely. “I leave you to your matters. Ser Davos.” With that, he turned and resumed his way to the Tower of the Hand. Behind him, he could hear Lannister and the onion knight talking. He could not make out the words, but he heard the Imp’s droll tones and Ser Davos’ blunt voice.

Jon Arryn was waiting for him in his solar, dressed in his rich clothes with his House’s colors. Stannis could never truly understand the need for dressing so, but the old man had explained to him the merits of appearances when one is Hand of the King. More so when the king is not interested in his duties as Robert was. “I am the face of the realm, Lord Stannis,” the man had told him.

He supposed he would have to subject himself to this falseness if Robert respected Lord Arryn’s wishes for him to succeed him as Hand. Already Shireen would make suggestions on his wardrobe, and he would listen. She was far from being like the other ladies, who only thought about fabrics and colors, but she was aware of this power Jon Arryn preached, the power of appearances. She would have to be, Stannis thought bitterly, guilt clouding his mind.

He took a seat as Jon Arryn poured him water. The old man knew better than to offer him wine. “Stannis,” he said warmly.

“Lord Hand,” he replied, taking a sip from his cup. The old man sighed, but his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“You will never call me ‘Jon’, then?”

Stannis only blinked back at him, which made the old man chuckle.

Truth be told, he could not understand why the old man had taken such an interest in him. Stannis supposed it was because Robert no longer seemed to listen to him, and so he had become his brother’s replacement in the old man’s mind. Why not Renly, he wanted to ask. _He_ is said to be Robert come again, not Stannis. He was nothing special, the plainer of the Baratheon brothers, the one everyone hated. He had none of his brothers’ graces and easy smiles.

“What do you make of Lord Stark’s movements?” Stannis blurted out. He hoped that, in private, the old man would share his thoughts.

Lord Arryn sighed, but his smile was gone. Instead, he looked sad. Something coiled in Stannis’ chest at that, but he clenched his jaw. “Ned,” the old man murmured. “I do not want to think Pycelle is correct.”

Stannis snorted. “Pycelle answers to Queen Cersei, who answers to her father. It would not surprise me that Tywin Lannister would jump at the chance of Robert distancing himself from Lord Stark.” He leaned back in his seat. “Not that he’d need to do much. My royal brother hasn’t left King’s Landing in years, and Lord Stark has not come south since Greyjoy’s rebellion.”

Jon Arryn looked at him for a moment, and Stannis felt himself shift in his seat. “True. What do you think of this, then?”

“Both Pycelle and Lannister told likely stories. For once, I agree with Renly’s suggestion of writing Lord Stark to get the truth from him. I do not think him capable of plotting against Robert, but something has him spooked. This matter with the beacons and Moat Cailin, it feels as if he were preparing for a war.”

The old man closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. “I had the same thought, but...” he shook his head. “It cannot be.” He looked at Stannis, almost pleading. The younger man did not know what to say. “Ned did not hate the Targaryens as a whole, not even after Aerys had his father and brother killed, not after Rhaegar took Lyanna… But to go after them...”

“Would he kill them? Would he take them as allies?” Stannis had to ask.

The old man shook his head again, now with more force. “No, Ned would never kill them. As to seek them out as allies, to what end? He is Warden of the North, the Lord of Winterfell, his children are well provided, his wife is sister to the Lord of Riverrun, and aunt to my own son. What could he gain from using the Targaryens?”

“The Iron Throne,” Stannis said, taking another sip from his water.

Jon Arryn frowned and looked away. “Ned had the chance to take the Iron Throne at the end of the rebellion. Robert took a wound at the Trident, and I stayed with him, while Ned hurried after the remains of the Targaryen forces, who rushed back to King’s Landing. Tywin Lannister had also sent his forces into the city, but he has always commanded from the rear, and so he did not enter until everything was done.”

Stannis scoffed. “A likely excuse for what he did to Princess Elia and her children,” he said. Jon Arryn said nothing to that, but he could see the old man agreed.

“Be that as it may, it was Ned who took the Iron Throne for Robert. But he could have claimed it for himself just as easily.”

“The Baratheons have a better claim,” he felt obligated to point out.

Lord Arryn bobbed his head, seemingly unconvinced. “That is what we’ve always said to appease the Targaryen loyalists,” he admitted. “But Robert won by conquest, and Ned would have been able to do the same. You know as well as I do that your brother did not want the crown.”

This was an old debate, so Stannis only nodded reluctantly. “Will you write Lord Stark, then?”

“Yes, and we shall see what Ned is up to,” Jon Arryn said. “In the mean time, we should see to that matter we discussed. Renly’s men would provide us with numbers in case things do not go as planned.”

Stannis sighed. “Would he take our side?”

The old man frowned. “Why wouldn’t he? He is your brother, and Robert’s.” Then he looked thoughtful. “And Ser Loras Tyrell would no doubt add his own men.”

That made Stannis grimace. His brother’s… _friend_. “And no doubt Mace Tyrell would jump at the chance.”

Lord Arryn nodded. “I understand your concern, but with the Tyrells, we would have the Reach on our side. The Stormlands, Dragonstone, and the Vale.” He stroked his grey beard. “If we could trust ravens, I would ask Ned. We would have the North, and possibly the riverlands as well.” He shook his head. “I have no doubt Ned would come to our side if it came to war.”

The Lord of Dragonstone tapped his fingers on the desk. “Telling Renly means we must make haste with this, lest the Lannisters act. There is no telling if the eunuch will find out about this and tell the Queen. And the Imp might hate his family, but he will take their side if it comes to war.”

With a heavy sigh, the old man nodded. “Then we shall arrange a meeting with your young brother. And Loras Tyrell,” he added. “Once we have our men secured, we shall speak to Robert.”

Stannis hoped things would be as easy as Jon Arryn made them out to be, but he had his doubts. Would Renly and Loras Tyrell agree to this? Would Robert believe them? What would Cersei Lannister do when they confronted her with the truth? And more important, what would Robert do to her? The last thing they needed was another mad king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been months! All I can say is that I didn't imagine it would take me so long, but things got a bit overwhelming in my life. Nothing dire, quite positive. I have a puppy, but I didn't imagine it would be so time-consuming. Heh! She's very little, so requires a lot of attention. Every time I sat down to write, there was something to do. :P She's very much like her namesake (guess, guess, nah, _Arya_ , of course).
> 
> Then, once I got used to the activity, I decided to get a video game (Ark, if anyone's interested), and I found it really enjoyable.
> 
> And finally, I had originally written this chapter to be Sam Tarly's. I had a lot of it written, and then I realized it wasn't going anywhere. So I chewed on it for some weeks, and knew I had to change the POV. Long story short, after some thinking, I decided it would be Stannis. What I wrote in Sam's chapter obviously _happened_ , we've just learned it with a bit of a delay in the small council meeting. Some we won't know until we see Jon and Arya again. So it wasn't wasted.
> 
> It's interesting to write characters I'm not particularly fond of... Or rather, the "popular interpretations". Stannis tends to be believed as this selfless savior, and I feel like that is a mistake from reading Cressen and Davos' POVs and taking them for absolute truth. Even denying some of the darker aspects of their chapters, really. I always felt that what Cressen experienced at the end of his chapter was a revelation, that it was foretelling us the truth about Stannis.
> 
> So now I get to play with Stannis within this story's changed timeline.
> 
> As you could see in this chapter, months have passed since the last chapter (quite fitting), and things have sped up a little bit. We've gained insight about Ned's plans, about Stannis and Jon Arryn's discoveries, and the mood in the ruling class of King's Landing.
> 
> Next up will be Viserys (with Dany, of course)! I must have spammed you all with the promise of Viserys for too long. I have more than 60% written, so it won't take months to post it. I **hope** I can post it within a week. But I don't want to promise. Once I post that one, I want to try to stick to a chapter every two weeks, as I did initially.
> 
> Sorry for the long A/N! And thanks for sticking around! :)


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